PR 4821 
.J4 B5 
1839 
Copy 1 



^ 



AfA*. ^„ _ 

BLANCHE OF NAVARRE. 

A PLAY. 

BY 

G. p. R, JAMES, ESQ., 

\UTHOE OF "the GENTLEM.AN OF THE OLD 
SCHOOL," "THE HUGUENOT," &,C". 




BLANCHE OF NAVARRE 



A PLAY. 






JAMES, ESQ., 



AUTHOR OF "THE GENTLEMAN Or THE OLD SCHOOL," "THE HU- 
GUENOT," "THE GIPSY," "THE ROBBER," 
&C., &C., &C. 



NE W.Y ORK: 

HARPER & BROTHERS, 82 CLIFF-STREET. 

18 3 9. 



t^A 



$ 



^^ 



3-?i 






DEDICATION. 



TO 



THOMAS NOON TALFOURD, ESQ., 
&c., &;c , &c. 



My dear Sir, 

You have so many claims on personal regard, as 
well as on public admiration and respect, that I hardly 
know whether to address this little work to you as to 
one from whose legal talents I have received impor- 
tant professional aid ; one from whose noble poetry I 
have derived unmixed delight ; or one to whom I, as 
well as every literary man, am deeply indebted for a 
gallant, and, I trust, successful, struggle in assertion 
of our undeniable rights against the virulent and in- 
iquitous opposition of a greedy and devouring faction. 

Suffer me, however, to make this the vehicle for 
expressing many various feelings towards you ; and 
accept this first attempt at dramatic composition, as a 
testimony of gratitude for your excellent legal advice 
upon a difficult question, of esteem for your generous 
and persevering efforts in behalf of the literature of 
your country, of admiration for the poet, and regard 
for the friend. 

Believe me, also, 

Ever yours faithfully, 
G. P. R. JAMES. 



DRAMATIS PERSON.E. 



MEN. 

Philip, King of Navarre. 

Don Ferdinand de Leyda. 

The Chancellor. 

Francis, Count of Foix. 

Don John. 

Two Navarrese Lords. 

Officer of the Guard. 

Priest. 

Jailer. 

French and Navarrese Noblemen, Pages, Surgeons, 
Attendants, Soldiers, &c. 



WOMEN. 

Isabel of Valois, Queen of Navarre. 
Blanche, Princess of Navarre. 

Maids, Ladies, Attendants, &c. 



BLANCHE OF NAVARRE. 



ACT I. 

SCENE I. 

A Gothic Hall in the Palace of Pampeluna, with large 
folding doors in the back scene, and decoration-i as for a 
royal Iridal. Loud acclamations from without heard as 
the curiam rises. 

PuiLir, Kmg of Navarre, Blanche, Princess of Na- 
varre, Don Ferdinand de I^evda, Commander of the 
King's Guard, the Chancellor, Nobles, Ladies attend- 
ing on the Princess, <^c., dfc. 

blanche. 
Hark, how they shout ! Hark, Philip ! She is here, 
Thine Isahel ! ihy briile ! Fly we to meet her I 
1 h»ng to see the bright reality 
Wlierciif a shade has reach'd us. 

THE chancellor {detaining the king, who has taken a step 
towards the gales). 

Gracious lord ! 
Forget not a just pride in too much love! 
We have no rule that inonarchs go like grooms, 
Unto their palace gates, and wait unboiineted 
Tlieir lady's coming. Those who abjure their state 
'I'o gratify a woman, soon will find 
They give themselves a ruler, not a bride. 

KING. 

That must not be ! and yet I fain would go, 

My heart beats high to welcome her. [Shouts without. 

BLANCHE. 

Oh, the chill shackles of this icy world! 



(To the Chanceli-or.) 
Frown not, my lord, I know ihey may be needful. 
I know that wholesome customs are the guards 
Wtnch keep the monarch. Reason, from the pressure 
Of the wild crowd of passions and caprices 
That throng around him in the human heart; 
But lei not guards be masters! iN'evcriheless, 
Doubtless your counsel is discreel and timely ! 
And now, to end dispute, lu ! here she comes, 
And, in the radiance of her beauty, sweeps 
All clouds away. 

[As she sp'iaks, the great doors in the hack scene open. 
Enter Isabel of Valois, the French Ambassador, 
Francis, Count of F\iix, and other French wble- 
wen, with guards, attendants, dfc. While the King 
and Chancellor meet and welcome the Queen, 
Blanche and the rest remain in front. 

DON FERDINAND DE LEVDA {gOzing at IsABEL). 

Lovely, indeed ! Yet how 
That nostril curls! How that lip's rubied bow 
Seems bent to give a wound ! 

BLANCHE {remarking her). 
She gazes on him 
As if she knew him not ; nor could divine 
Which is her promised husband, whicli the king 
Of her new land ! She will not — no, ah, no ! — 
She cannot cloud this bright day with one look 
Unworthy him or her! No ! Now, she smiles ! 
'Twas but the dizzy brain and beating heart 
Made bright eyes sightless, and made warm lips cold. 
Lo ! now she meets his greeting fondly too ! 
My heart's at rest. [Goes forward to meet Isabel. 

DON FERDINANT) DE LEYDA. 

So were not mine, were I the king! 

That eye's too keen and fearless for a bride ; 

And the full lip quivers with a quick spirit. 

But not with dread of these new scenes and faces, 

Nor at the change from maiden into wife. 

If e'er 1 wed, may I find humbled looks 

In her I love, and warm but timid smiles. 



BLANCHE {advancing hand-in-hnnd with Isabel) 
Nny, lady, nay ! My tongue and heart are one. 
Sweet Isabel, there's not within my breast 
One pulse but bids you welcome. In these halls, 
From the calm morning of my life till now, 
'Tis true, I've reign'd supreme. Childhood's command 
O'er tiie fond parent's heart was my first sway; 
I ask'd, and hH was granted. Next, the love 
Of tins dear brother, gave into my hands 
A sceptre of sweet rule — 



Most happy, then 



ISABEL. 

Thy life has been 



BLANCHE. 

Happy, indeed ! The people 
Were friends, were brethren to me. Hitherto, 
Queen of myself, ruler of all around, 
If ever care I felt, the fault was mine. 
And my imperfect nature's. Thou art come. 
And all is changed! No longer misiress here: 
My brother's halls are thine, sweet Isabel. 
His realm, his subjects, nay, his heart itself, 
Owns o'her sway ; and, in the happy hotnc 
Where my glad childhood sported uncontroll'd, 
There stands beside me one, by whom henceforth 
The hourly current of my after-life. 
Each thought, each feeling, every act and word, 
Must be affected. To thy brow I look 
As to the sky. Its smiles and frowns, my sister, 
Are now ray sunshine or my storms. 

ISABEL. 

Fear not ! 
No storms, I trust, shall ever mar thy fate ; 
And, for the rest, we'll use our utmost power 
To compensate for that we take away. 

BLANCHE. 

Think not T grudge it. If my brother's hand. 

When, Isabel, to thee he gives that sway 

Which once was mine, gave thee a thousand realms, 

I'd think my loss repaid by gaining thee. 

Nor, looking on thee, do I doubt my fa4e. 



10 

In the clear liquid lustre of thine eyes 
I see the limpid surface of a fountain, 
Beneath wliicli lie deep, sweet, and living wells: 
And, poor though 1 be now, 1 fain would add, 
To all my brother gives, one other gift. 

ISABEL. 

What is that 1 

BLANCHE. 

The love of a true heart ! 
I fain would love thee ; but I must not say 
I love thee yet, for yet I hardly know thee. 
But, if 1 judge aright, the time will come 
When thy bright looks, translated into deeds, 
Shall win all love in this my native land ; 
And Blanche and Isabel, wiih liearts entwined. 
Shall walk in strong affection through these halls. 

ISABEL. 

Doubt it not, sister! doubt it not! But, lo ! 

Here comes your brother; now my lord and king — 

THE KING (ivho has been speaking behind with the 
Chancellor, Ambassadors, and Lords of France, ad- 
vanccs loith them). 
Bringing to greet you our gay lords of France. 
And here is one whom, with especial grace, 
Welcome I pray: a cousin of our house. 

BLANCHE. 

Which '? Which is he ? That tall and high-browed man 
With snowy hair? 

ISABEL. 

Fy ! that is the ambassador. 
Oh, no! He with the lordly air, whose step 
Seems destined to shake worlds. Yet in the dance 
That step is lighter than the hillside wind. 
Is he not, gracious Blanche 1 

BLANCHE. 

Gracious indeed ! 



Cousin of Foix, to this fair lady's smiles 

We have commended you. Our sister Blanche 



11 

Cannot have ears so guiltless of all news 
As never to have heard of your achievements 
In lists of love and war. Francis of Foix ! 

THE COUNT OF FOIX {kissing the hand of the Princess). 
Bright lady, by your leave ! [Aside.^ So cold an air! 
[Aloud.] Have 1 offended? Or that chilly look — 

BLANCHE {passing on). 
Sir, I knovv no offence. Sweet Isabel, 
Let us seek breath ! In this too crowded hall 
The heat oppresses. Near there is a room, 
Whence, from the windings of our Arga's stream 
And sunny lands, rich in all fruits and flowers, 
The eye may reach the snowcrown'd Pyrenees, 
Looking like age o'ertopping jocund youth. 
Yet are their ancient heaps the nearer heaven. 
Come, Isabel. 

KINO. 

Give me your hand, dear lady! 
[Exeunt all but the Count of Foix, who lingers, musing. 

COUNT (speaking with long pauses). 
So lovely, yet so cold 1 Hypocrisy ! 
There's fire beneath that snow ! Yet not in scorn 
She seem'd to speak: not like the haughty darae 
Inured to man's pursuit, and taught by art — 
A skilful trader — to affix high price 
To not unwilling smiles : to frown from use, 
E'en while she laughs at heart. There was a look 
Of condemnation, but just touch'd with grief; 
Which, of earth's sympathies the rosy hue. 
Gave to the chiller purity of heaven — 
It matters not. ! All women may be won ; 
And she's worth winning. [Enter Don Ferdinand. 

DON FERDINAND. 

Linfj^er you, my lord? 
How you stay'd here unniark'd, I cannot tell. 
The eager bridegroom to the altar's rite 
Now leads his lovely bride. You must be there, 
Lest men should say the Count of Foix regrets 
To see his cousin Isabel's fair hand 
Bestow'd upon another. 



12 



THE COUNT (laughing). 
Joy be theirs ! 
I thought not of her, though a fairer dame 
Ne'er quitted France to wed a stranger prince. 
But you have many marvels here, my lord; 
A ciiy in a paradise. 1 think 
Some angels, too, in Eden, who may well 
Dazzle our eyes, and give us food for musing. 
But let us go I 

DON FERDINAND. 

This is the way, my lord ! [pauses. 
In high festivities, the court this night 
Rejoices with the king : but on the morrow 
I trust the noble Count of Foix will spend 
A revel with the poor lords of Navarre 
In my unworthy house. 



Most gladly, sir. 
But, hark ! I hear the sound of many feet 
Buzzing along the passage. Let us not 
Miss this high ceremony. [Exeunt. 



SCENE II. 

A banquet. The house of Don Ferdinand de Leyda, a 
raised gallery filled with musicians. Don Ferdinand ; 
the Count of Foix ; Lords of France and of Navarre, 
sealed at supper. Attendants, dfc. Gay music and song 
from the gallery while the party sup. 

SONG.*- 

woman's love. 

Woman's love ! Woman's love ! 
What shall liken woman's love 
On earth below ; in heaven above 

What is there so sweet ? 

♦ While the song is sung, much talking and laughter at the sup- 
per-table. The song should be for a bass voice. 



13 

The spring bird's lay may sooth the ear, 
The eye may love the sunshine clear, 
The violet to the scent be dear, 

But where do all sweets meet? 

Refrain. 
Woman's love ! Woman's love ! 
Joins earth's joys wiUi joys above. 

Ambition's toils are idle pain ; 
Avarice but liule gain ; 
Learning — tioloinoii's was vain ! 

Glory— but a dream. 
But there's one thing sweeter Car 
Than all beneath the evening star, 
Brighter than the lightnings are, 

When in the west they gleam. 

Refrain. 
Woman's love ! Woman's love ! 
Joins earth's joys with joys above. 

Don Ferdinand, Count of Foix, Navarrese and French 
lords advance, laughins; and conversing. 



Nay, I will give no names ! I still nave held, Don 
Ferdinand, that he who really wins in love's soft 
game, may tell his winnings, but will spare the loser. 
The braggart who repays a woman's smile by giving up 
her name to one light luugh, is a cracked cup, framed 
of some villanous clay, unmeet to hold the generous 
wine of love. 

A LORD OF NAVARRE. 

And yet they tell us that the Count of Foix still flies 
his falcon at the highest game. 



And wherefore not, Don John 1 Every pursuit has 
its ambition. In the field of war, our lance is aimed at 
the renowned shield, our sword seeks out the highest 
crest; and in these softer lists, there still is glory in a 
high emprise. Show me the loveliest, noblest, coldest, 
most secure in station, nature, breeding, and disdain, 
and she is thenceforth the game that I pursue, to con- 
quer her, or to become her slave. 



14 

DON JOHN {laughing'). 
An Alcibiades ! A very Alcibiades! 

DON FERDINAND. 

There's some one in liis itiDiights e'en now ! Look 
how lie snnles! A qiiec^n, an empress, or a cottage 
maid : I'll drink to her briglit eyes whoe'er slie be. 
Dring me some wine! Most noble Count ol Koix! 
Here's Ihe next lady on your lists of love! [Takes a 
cup of wine from an ailendant. 

COUNT. 

Well, be it so! Give me the cup. [To attendants. '\ 
Health to her, also, lords! Blanche of Navarre! 

[The nobles of Navarre draw back from hira suddenly, 
some laying their hands upon their swords. 

DON JOHN. 

This must not be ! or did I hear aright T 

ANOTHER LORD {speaking almost at the same time). 
My Lord of J'oix ! My Lord of Foix ! 

A THIRD LORD (drawing his sioord). 
Dare he name the Princess Blanche 1 

DON FERDINAND DE LEYDA. 

Hold back, my friends ! holdback! He is my guest! 
Fear not, good gentlemen of France. The laws — the 
laws of hospitality are here stronger than fetters. 

DON JOHN. 

But mark, Don Ferdinand — 

DON FERDINAND. 

He knew not what he said ! He cannot know 
The hearts of this whole people. Good, my lord, 

[To the Count 
Gladly we welcome you to this our land. 
An honour'd stranger, gay, renown'd, and brave, 
Skill'd in the arts of pleasure as of war; 
Undaunted, courteous, liberal : but mark 
One caution ! Hold with reverence due 
The name of one just raention'd somewhat lightly. 



15 

She is our native princess ; has grown up 
Under our eyes ainid the love of all ; 
Loved past all love ; with that pure noble love 
Which elevates its object to the throne 
Of the high heart; that love which to the good 
Is natural towards the good ; and which, 
E'en in the bosoms of the bad, has power 
To plant one holy thing. 

THE COUNT {turning away with a smile). 

A somewhat long 
Discourse. 

DON FERDINAND {vehemently). 

Smile not, Sir Count, for we will bear 
No trifling with her name ! Speak not of her 
"With one vain hope. Her thoughts are bright and fair 
As her fair face ; pure as a saint's in heaven 
From aught of evil. Smile not, sir, I say, 
Although my lip speaks praise of purity ! 
We see her actions, know her every deed. 
Where is there sorrow, that she is not found 
With aid and consolation in her train ? 
Where is there virtue, honour, where good deeds 
To which the tongue of Blanche refuses praise ? 
Who is there wrong'd, to whom her voice denies 
Its music eloquence, to plead the cause 
Of the oppress'-d, how great soe'er may be 
The evil-doer ■? Holy is her name m 

To the ears of those who see her every day. 
I've known her sit beside the bed of death, 
In all the livid horrors of the plague. 
And bend her bright head o'er the ghastly sick, 
Without one look but pitying sympathy ; 
And yet, 1 tell thee, she would shrink as loathing 
From thee and thy loose love, as from a snake, 
Or any other foul and noisome thing ! 

COUNT {warmly). 

How now, Don Ferdinand ! This is too much ! 
These shackles of your hospitality. 
Which you but now vaunted so mightily, 
Afford your tongue wide range. 

{He pauses and recovers fmnadf. 



16 

But let it be : 
I will not take offence ; though once again, 
With injury to no one, I will say [Raises the cup. 

Blanciie of Navarre! Those who in simple words 
Find evil meanings, make them ! Let no broils 
Mar our fair revelry. Don Ferdinand, 
'I'here is my hand. Let us forget these things ! 
I'll claim another cup before we part ! 

DON FERDINAND. 

More wine ! More wine there ! [The]/ bring wine. 

COUNT. 

Here, my gallant friends ! [talcing a cup. 
Here''s to all loves, past, present, and to come! 
And more than all to yours, Don Ferdinand. 
Ha ! Am I right? A lady with bright eyes, 
At la!?:t night's ball, robed in dark purple, one 
With swanlike throat as fair as ivory, 
Rising, like snowdrop from the early grass; 
And on her brow a pearl, that dusky look'd 
By that it rested on \ Her beaming eye 
FoUow'd your steps, as waits yon brilliant star 
Upon the evening moon. [Points to the casement. 

But by my faith 

[givijig hack the cup. 
This juice is potent, or my brain is weak. 
And I must bid good-night. Come, cousin d'Albret ! 
Come, good Lord of Roye ! Farewell, kind nobles ! 
Don Ferdinan,d, farewell ! 

DON JOHN. 

We go too, my lord. 
Farewell, De Leyda! 

[They take leave ceremoniously, and exeunt all but Don 
Ferdinand. 

DON FERDINAND (alone). 
Does this proud Count of Foix bear words like these 1 
Then, by my life, he shall hear more of them, 
Or else unsay this wild conceit and pledge — 

Re-enter the Count, speaking loudly to those without. 

COUNT. 

Tis but my glove ! I had forgot my glove ! 



17 

Dismount not, I entreat ! I come ! I come ! 

[Grasps the arm of Don Ferdinand, and lowers his 
voice a Utile. 
We know each other, my good lord ! Such words 
Require liiie deeds ! Where shall it be 1 and when ? 

DON FERDINAND {rapidbj). 
At dawn to-morrow. la the meadows past 
The Taffalla gate. 

COUNT. 

There can be no need 
To mingle others with this light dispute. [They whisper. 

DON FERDINAND. 

So be it, then ! With lance and sword, my lord, 
And but a single page to hold the horses. 

COUNT. 

So, so ! Oh, here's the glove ! Good-night, once more, 

Gallant Don Ferdinand. I come, fair lords ! 

The night is fine. {Going. 

DON FERDINAND. 

Nay, I must see you forth. {Exeunt. 



ACT II. 

SCENE I. 

An Observatory, ivith a large window as near the front as 
possible, showing gradually the rise of day. Astrological 
Instruments scattered about. 

The Priest alone, turning from the window, and advancing. 

PRIEST. 

'Tis emptiness and vanity ! Yet, strange ! 
We cling to the delusion ; pass the night 
In watching stars, that make us no reply ! 
But no : oerchance we seek them not aright. 
B2 



18 

They have a voice, and speak if we would hear. 

They tell us of infinily and power, 

And ruling might inmieasurably vast: 

They speak our littleness, yet make us feel 

Great in Almighty love. [Muses. 

I'll be no more 
The creature of vain systems; but, removed 
From all these idle things, will pass the hours 
Of my remaining span in solitude 
Amid the mountains, seeking better knowledge 
From that eternal book, where all the words 
Like these {poiniing to the stars) are lights from heaven. 
[Goes to the window and opens the casement. 
Who's there ? 

Enter Blanche and Maid. 

BLANCHE. 

'Tis I, 
Father ; you promised me to read the stars, 
And tell me what the future may portend 
Towards Navarre. 

PRIEDT. 

Who shall tell aught of that 1 
On earth, whichever way we turn our eyes, 
We are surrounded closely by a cloud, 
A sullen mist, which renders all confused 
E'en close at hand, and veils each distant thing 
In rayless darkness ; yet, as we advance, 
Gives the same space to sight, at every step 
Disclosing new events, first faint and dim, 
Then clearer, till they touch us as they pass. 
Whirled through the narrow circle of our ken. 
The while to guide us, reason holds a torch. 
Dim and ill-lighted, o'er the one right path. 
And fancy, in the cloud, bearing her lamp. 
Flits round, like wildfires on some midnight moor. 

BLANCHE. 

But not long since you did believe, good father, 
That stars art link'd to human destinies, 
And could lead those who read their lessons right 
Through the dark future. 

PRIEST. 

I've learn'd better now ! 
Lady, there is one star, and one alone, 



19 

That tells the future. Its interpreter 

Is in man's heart, and is caU'd conscience : 

The star, True Faith; the future that it shows 

Is beyond human life. But let me not 

Pretend to understand you ill : this night 

I've watch'd the course of many a wand'ring orb, 

From the spot whence it rose to where it set. 

One voice it had distinct, the voice of praise : 

But, by the rules of art interpreted, 

'J'he promise of each star, 1 saw, was peace ! 

Peace and tranquillity unto this land, 

Though every eartiily thing forebodes a storm— 

MAID, 

That is to say, he and the stars fell out, 
And the good father, like our giddy world. 
Calls all things false that don't agree with him. 

BLANCHE. 

Hush ! Thou art malapert ! 

PRIEST. 

Nay, check her not ; 
There's truth in what she says. But, lady dear, 
Have I not cause to fear a coming tempest. 
When with the name of our scarce three days' queen, 
The busy world — 

BLANCHE {turning lowards the ivindow, and then gazing out). 

Hush, sir! No more, no more ! 
Oh that this splendid scene, where God's pure truth 
And universal love, in tides of light. 
Pours, as if fountains of eternal splendour 
Were operi'd in the east, to flood the heaven 
With plenty-bearing rays ; counselling man, 
E'en ISy the very aspect of the sky, 
To deeds of peace, and love, and charity : 
Oh that this glorious scene should be a place 
Of hate, malevolence, and calumny ! 
Look where the morning light rests peacefully, 
Like a good father's blessing, on those towers 
By the Taffalla gate ! But what is that ] 
What do those mounted men in the wide meadows! 

PPaEST. . 

'Tis but two horsemen gone to break a lance 



20 

In friendly sport beside the river there. 
Ha! one of ihem is down ! 

MAID {running tip). 

If that be sport, 
Good father, T will never play with you! 
'I'herti's death in that fell sport ! Lady, away; 
Come from the window : you will see blood spijl'd. 

PRIEST. 

Their swords are oiH, in truth: I'll to the guard, 

And warn the captain. [Exit. 

BLANCHE. 

They fall together! Girl, away, away! 

Call the attendants. By St. Helen's steps, 

'Tis scarce a furlong ; haste I [Exit Maid. 

BLANCHE {alone). 

Oh, bloody Cain, 
Thy spirit lives ! Whate'er the curse might be 
On thee and on thy children, through all time, 
This brother-kijlinof rage were curse enough ! [A pause. 
Hark! there are many steps. Wh"> -^ay this be. 
That late within these walls held joyou; life, 
And now, perhaps, is silent? {listening) 'Tis a groan! 
They bear him past the door ! 

Re-enter Priest. 

PRIEST. 

Sad deeds, indeed! 
The Count of Foix, so blithe but yesterday, 
So full of life, and of life's rankest weeds — 

BLANCHE. 

Is dead! Alas! he was unfit to die. 
Oh ! now I grieve I spoke to him such words 
Of cold displeasure, when but yesterday 
He laid the prize, which in the tilt he won, 
Before my feet; so soon, alas, to die! 

PRIEST. 

Lady, he is not dead, but sorely wounded. 
His foe was one well known in arms, 
Don Ferdinand de Leyda ; he, too, hurt, 
Has been borne dying to his house, they say. 



21 



BLANCHE. 

Alas ! his sister Marian ! God spare both 

These rash, unthinking men, to mourn such deeds! 

Many another ill. 1 fear, must weigh 

On this proud baron's wounded hours, if e'er 

He thinks, or thinks but with a jest, 

On Heaven's offended purity. 

Re-enter Maid. 

MAID. 

The king, your highness, asks for you : the queen 
Is likewise in the hall. 



I come, I come ! 
Another day, good father, you shill tell 
More of those things we spoke upon but now. 
This morning's deed, in truth, rebukes the stars: 
This is no peaceful act. 

PRIEST. 

There's more to come ! {Exeunt. 



SCENE II. 

The chamber of the Count of Foix. The Count seated 
in a chair in front ; the Surgeons leaving him ; a Page. 

COUNT. 

And now good-day, good-day ! I thank you, sirs ! 

[Exit Surgeons and Page. 
I've borne worse pain than that ! yet, to say truth, 
"When the fell iron grated on the bone. 
As forth they drew the lance's head, there came 
An aguish shiver o'er my limbs, that made 
These iron sinews like an infant's. Boy, 

[Re-enter Prige, who approaches him. 
Why come you back ] Are the chirurgeons gone ] 

PAGE. 

Yes, sir ; but, ere they went, 



22 

They pray'd your lordship to retire to bed 
With all convenient speed, thinking you spoke 
In jest but now. 

COUNT {sharply). 

I jested not! Away! 

Get hence ! get hence ! You but disturb my thoughts. 

[Exit Page. 
I'll not to bed till the sun shows the way. 
How tiresome are these drawling days of sickness ! 
Man loses all life's joys. To couch the lance, 
To chase the boar, to court bright smiles from beauty, 
Even to strike the heart-entrancing lute, 
Or follow the o-ay science in sweet verse, 
Fills not the empty hours. Who shall bestride 
My gallant steeds, and put them through their paces, 
While they appear to scorn the jewell'd mead 
That lays flower'd gems before their feet? Grooms! 

Grooms ! 
Dull grooms, to fret them with their heavy hands ! 
/must sit here and muse the livelong day, 
Turn to past scenes with old-man Memory, 
And conjure shadows of extinguish'd joys ; 
Joys that leave naught but ashes when burn'd out. 
So holy men would say ; and it may be 
Too true ! 'Tis certain I ne'er look'd on them 
Save through the lustre-giving light of wine. 
Without a dull weight resting on my heart ; 
But who comes here 1 [Re-enter Page. 

COUNT. 

What would you, boy, again! 

PAGE. 

Sir, a fair company of knights and ladies. 

The king, the queen — but lo, my lord, they come. 

Enter King, Queen, and Attendants, ivith Blanche. 
The Count endeavours to rise. 

KING OF NAVARRE. 

Nay, rise not, count ! We know that you have met 
Somewhat inhospitable welcome here, 
Which shall be question'd strictly. 



Nay, not so, 



23 



I pray you, sir ! It was a knightly strife, 
Ruled by the laws of chivalry ; a foe 
Worthy a worthier arm than that he met, 
I only fear that he is hurt, my lord. 



If so, he's justly punish'd ! Our fair queen. 
Most lovely and beloved, is not content 
Till she inquires how fares — 

ISABEL {passing the King and interrupting him). 
How goes it, Francis? 
Thou art much hurt, fair cousin. By my life, 
Thy cheek is wan, like the chalk countenance 
Of anthem-singing nun. Fy, cousin, fy ! 
We'll gather up fresh roses for you soon. 

{In a lower voice, bending over him.) 
Oh that they could be given by smiles or tears ; 
But smiles are fruitless sunshine, tears cold rain! 
Are you much injured] Do you suffer much? 
They would not let me come without a train 
Fit for a hawking party. 

THE COUNT {in a loio voice). 

'Tis a trifle ! 

A nothing? I shall, ere long, be better. 

{Aloud.) 
I thank your majesty, with thanks sincere, 
For this kind condescension ; nor thank less 
This gracious lady {turning to Blanche), your most fair, 

new sister. 
No claim have I upon her charity. 
That she should visit this dim room of sickness, 
And cheer its weary twilight with her smiles. 



Would, my good lord, that my poor presence here 
Could truly do you good. I trust your hurt 
May not prove dangerous. 



Fy, Count of Foix! 
Your pride, which .still has seem'd like a wild haggard 
That falconer's tame down with scanty food, 



24 

And wakeful nights, and days in darksome mew, 
Till its rough nature softens, is brought down 
By these chirurgeons quick as ears of corn 
Before the sickle. I have heard you say 
That woman was but made to sooth man's hours 
In sickness; make him sport like marraosette 
On holydays, and be dress'd fine at feasts. 



Record not, lady, all the foolish things 

These lips have said in other days. 'Tis true 

My words have oft in sport belied my heart. 

And pastime been the sland'rer of my thoughts. 

However proud I be, I'm not so vain 

To doubt the Princess Blanche might give her time 

More pleasantly, though not more charitably. 

BLANCHE. 

If charitably, then most gladly, sir, 
I would that I could do ycu any good. 
Your lonely hours must needs be dull, I fear, 
And may be many. 

ISABEL. 

Nay, then, help him, Blanche, 
To pass those weary hours. Your company — 

BLANCHE. 

The company of better wits than mine 

Was what I meant, dear sister. Books I spoke of; 

His page can read them. 

ISABEL. 

Sermons? canticles'? 

BLANCHE. 

No ! The sweet laj's of our own sunny land ; 
The tales of yours ; the living poesy 
Of men and ages which have past us by, 
But, in the spirit of their lofty thoughts. 
Live on immortal, and still rule the course 
Of thought and human mind, affecting much 
All feelings through all time. 

If other thoughts 
Come too — the thoughts of death and all beyond- 



25 

Let. them have welcome also. The strong mind 
Loves vviili sucli mightier themes as those to cope, 
Atid wrestle with great truths, however stern! 
llhiess and wounds may not prove always evils 
If we receive them wisely. 1 am sure 
The sickness ol' the body often works 
The cure of a worse sickness in ttie mind. 

ISABEL {scornfully). 
She preaches without pulpit! On my life 
She'll send the count to sleep. Let's go, my lord ! 
Pray sister, Father Blanche, is sermon done] 

'lExeunt. Isabel leading the way angrily. 



SCENE in. 

A Corridor. Enter Isabel unattended., and, a moment after, 
from the opposite side, the King and Attendants. 

ISABEL {apart, as she suddenly sees the King). 
Ha! I must face it boldly. One right lost, 
One privilege foregone, for coward shame, 
Makes us deserved slaves I 

king {with surprise). 
Ha, Isabel ! 
Whence comest thou, fairest ? This way only leads— 

ISABEL {interrupting him). 
To the apartments of the Count of Foix. 
Thence come I, my good lord, with a gay heart. 
My cousin's all but well ; and I must own. 
In all a merry life, I ne'er have laugh'd 
More joyous than just now. Our saintly Blanche — 
Heaven help her little heart ! — has preach'd and preach'd, 
Till yon mad libertine, the willing slave 
Of wine and woman in his hours of health, 
Is now all ready for a rosary. 

KING. 

A happy change, may it but last ! The count — 



26 

Some inky faults apart — is fiU'd so full 
Of noble qualities, of generous courage, 
That all must grieve to see, mid shining things. 
Such murky spots, as flaws in a rich jewel, 
And we may wisely wish some potent charm 
Might conjure them away.- 



Pshaw, Philip ! Pshaw ! 
The count is ill and lonely, moody, sad, 
Full of sick fancies and dull ponderings. 
There is a saying of a greater sinner, 
Who would turn monk when he was sick, but who 
Turn'd well and was no monk. Thus will the count. 
While he lies withering there, alone and dull, 
He'll promise Blanche to be a Capuchin ; 
But let the surgeons cure him, Blanche will find 
He'll take the staff, but leave the beads behind. 



Is Blanche there still ? 



Oh; no, we quarrell'd. 
Good faith, she rates me as a servant girl ! , 

She went the other way and I went this. 
Though she look'd well enough inclined to stay 
Beside her pale-iipp'd prisoner. Fare you well ! 
This is my path. [Going. 

KING. 

I will but visit him, 
And then — 



If more than mine you like his chamber. 

Pray stay with him as long as e'er you will. 

He seems t' enchant sister and brother too. 

Would he had not come here ! I had a song 

1 long'd to sing you ; but it matters not. 

Adieu, my lord, we'll meet at supper time. [Going. 

EINO. 

Nay, I will come with you. 



27 

ISABEL (smiling). 

Why should you so t 
Leave not for me affairs of stale, my lord ; 
Let not your sag'^; men say the king neglects 
Matters of moment for a gay girl's smile : 
Pray come not, if you come not willingly. 

KING. 

Oh, I come willingly, my bright one. Go ! 

[To an Attendant. 
Inquire how fares the noble Count of Foix ; 
And say, important business has detain'd 
The king, who was half way to visit him. [Exeunt. 



SCENE IV. 

A Chamber in the Palcce. The Count q/Toix. 

COUNT (advancing). 
Hail thee, returning health ! I feel the blood 
Run lighter through my veins ; and the soft air, 
Itself a balm to these exhausted limbs, 
Comes burdened, yet rejoicing, 'neath the weight 
Of flowery perfumes rare ; fine essences, 
Distiird by the great chymist of the sky 
From all earth's fragrant leaves. How sickness gives 
New edge to the dull'd sense, making it fresh 
As childhood to the taste of simple joys 
Forgotten in the pleasures of the world. 

Enter the Priest, who is passing across behind^ 

COUNT (continuing). 

Would I could keep that freshness now regain'd ! 

[Seeing the Priest. 
Ah, my good father! Whither now away ! 
Your foot seems hasty. Are you bent to shrive 
Some dying sinner, or to console the sick 
With angel messages from life's great book ? 

PRIEST. 

Not so, my lord ; I was but passing by, 



28 

And hasten'd on, hearing you speak aloud, 
Lest I mighr. play, unwillingly, eaves-dropper, 
And catch your words. 

COUNT. 

Was I so voluble 1 
I thought I used but fancy's silent voice, 
With my own heart conversing. But, no matter ! 
Are you not the same who, in my sickness, 
During that night when first the fever seized me, 
And reason shook on her unsteady throne, 
Watch'd the long hours beside my bed, and spoke 
Consolatory words 1 

PRIEST. 

The same, my lord. 

COUNT. 

I thank you, reverend sir, though in good faith 
Your visits were not frequent. 

PRIEST. 

Sir, you seem'd 
Impatient of discourse ; and most impatient 
When the discourse was fittest for my tongue. 
Had mortal danger lasted, such impatience 
Should have proved no rebuff; but when I found 
All danger past, 'twas then — 

COUNT. 

Was I impatient ? 
Ah! methinks I was; and I crave pardon. 
Yet fretful words, in sickly anguish spoken, 
Scare not the wise physician from our couch ; 
Nor should the impatience of the writhing heart 
Drive him away who holds salvation's cup 
To the parch'd lip of guilt. The bitter draught, 
Given by the leech to cure corporeal ills, 
Tastes sweet to that which medicines to the soul- 
Repentance. Yet forgive me, holy man, 
I am still querulous. I know not why, 
There seems a struggle in my heart, confused 
And indistinct, like view of distant battle. 

PRIEST. 

May I, my lord, interpret that dim fight. 



29 

And with yo;ir spirit standing side by side. 
Like two men on a hill above the field, 
Point out the varied squadrons as they charge ; 
Tell you who wins, who loses in the strife, 
And where the fault that casts away the chance 
Of happy vict'ry in a holy cause 1 

COUNT. 

Speak, father ! speak ! you argue like a soldier. 

PRIEST. 

Once I was one. Now, then, mark well, my son. 

[Points to the side scene. 
See you that mighty host, led on by one 
All kingly in his mien, with air, and words, 
And habit of command ; follow'd by troops 
Brilliant and glittering, golden arms, and steeds 
Beating the eager ground ] 



Nay, I see naught ! 
But yet I comprehend. 

PRIEST. 

Search your own bosom ! 
Now, see that scanty troop upon a hill, 
Plain in their armour, homely in their guise, 
Firm, though not boastful, stern, though calm they 
stand. 

COUNT. 

And they shall win the day ! Such are the men 
That conquer ! 

PRIEST. 

Yes ! They conquer if they will. 
No power shall force them from that mighty rock; 
No light-heel'd charge shall shake their firm array; 
No brawling trumpets move their hearts with fear. 
But lo ! where lies the cause of strife between 
Those meeting hosts? A castle claim'd by each; 
The one from long possession, though usurp'd. 
And by the other from an innate right. 
Now from the calm bold spearmen on the hill 
Goes down a herald to demand admittance ! 
C9 



30 

Hark how he speaks ! " Give entrance to your lord, 

To save you from yon tyrant's coming power ! 

We offer peace, tranquillity, and calm 

Domestic love, and the bright exercise 

Of all sweet charities, hope, trust, and safety !" 

The other herald comes and cries, " Fling wide 

Your gates ! Make room for Joy ! The walls we'll keep 

With revelry ; the doors we'll close with mirth ; 

Nor sigh, nor tear, nor groan from those without, 

Shall e'er disturb our sports. We'll scatter gems — 

Youth, purity, and innocence — like dust. 

The flowers we tread on shall be human hearts. 

Which, when they wither, we will cast away. 

Fling wide ! fling wide the gates ! and let us in, 

Or we will force the walls and spoil the place !" 

COUNT {vehemently). 
By Heaven, they shall not ! 

PRIEST. 

Nobly said, my lord ! 
You're pledged and sworn, henceforth for evermore, 
For Heaven's high King, captain and governor 
Of that besieged fort ! Look to it well ; 
See that no treason enter; guard the walls 
With wakeful vigilance ; watch gate and bridge ; 
And, ever ready with a hero's care, 
Start into arms to meet the foe's assault. 
That castle is your heart, the foe is vice ; 
Honour and armed truth are friends at hand. 
God's soldier are you ! Go and do your duty ! 

{Exit suddenly 

COUNT {musing). 
Yes, I will do it ! Yes, if there be strength 
In any human resolution. Still, 
I doubt myself; and doubting argues weakness. 
Returning health may bring returning evils. 
It may be sickness tames the heart — or love ^ 
Ay, love, perhaps ! Such themes ne'er cross my mind 
Without her image rising up therewith 
Most beautiful ; yet gentle, too. as pure. 
How often I have talk'd of love ! 'Tis strange ! 
I would not bring one stain on that bright being 
For all imagination's wildest dream 



31 

Could picture or earth give. Oil let it, then, 

Be love or sickiieos that has taught my heart 

Lessons of nobler thought; it matters not! 

Yes ! she spoke truly when those sweet lips said 

Sickness is oft a medicine to thp mind : 

And why not love a guide? Whom have we here? 

The queen ! 

Enter Isabel, Blanche, and tico Ladies, their attendants. 

ISABEL. 

The prisoner at large again I 
Why, how now, Count of Foix ? You look as scared 
And melancholy as a long-tamed bird 
Broke from its cage, and chased by its wild brothers. 
How now, Francis ? 

BLANCHE. 

T give you joy, my lord, 
On your recover'd health. Tiie day smiles fair, 
The air is kindly, and the glowing world — 
1 speak of nature's woild, not man's — is merry 
In Sabbath sunshine. It will do you good 
To feel yourself abroad again ; more good 
To see the cheerful sights this day affords. 

COUNT {lo Blanche). 
It does me good, indeed, to see such sights; 
Would all that I shall see were half so gracious. 

[To the Queen. 
I thank your majesty for all your interest. 
The surgeons fain would tie me to my chamber; 
But 1 was prison-sick, and would vvalj< forth. 
There's something in the feel of liberty — 

ISABEL {inlerriipting him). 
Will ever keep the count a single man! \laughs. 

What! you would call wedlock another name 
For sickness, noble count? 1 well recall 
One autumn day when you — 

COUNT. 

Nay, lady dear, 
I said it not of all! I said, to some — 

ISABEL. 

You spoke of all — 



32 



COUNT. 

Ill-sorted matches, true ! 
I call'd them living chains that thrall the soul. 
So far I spoke most justly, and no wrong; 
But many another word was said, I know, 
Rash, foolish, heartily repented now ! 

ISABEL {peevishly). 
After a bout of sickness, that has left. 
Doubtless, your heart as ashy as your cheeks. 
Some days hence — repentance then forgotten — 
You'll vow all chains were made but to be broken. 



I never shall think otherwise than now ! 

For I have thought within the last two weeks 

More and more deeply than in years before. 

Shall we, then, choose the vows we like to break 1 

If we take bonds upon us, pawn our word 

In contract to some wretched usurer. 

Or pledge our truth to either friend or foe, 

We keep that plighted word; or else are held 

In scorn among the honest and the brave ; 

An object of dull shame to our own hearts. 

Shall we then — 

BLANCHE {somewhat impatiently). 
Sister, do you recollect T 
At noon some poor petitioners were told 
To seek you on their suit ; and by yon clock — 

ISABEL. 

Go you, dear Blanche ; you know them and their wants 

Better than I do. Be you liberal 

Out of this purse, as you are out of your own. 

l^Exit Blanche and one attendant. 

ISABEL {continues, aside, looking at the Count). 
He gazes after her! And now his eyes 
Are fixM upon a checker in the floor. 
As if a curious map were there outspread 
To guide him through the wilderness of fate ! 
I'll wake him, though ! Good-morrow, Count of Foix ! 
We have been some time parted ! You have gone 
A journey since we met. Nay, colour not, 



33 

But come with me, fair cousin. Let us go 
Where you may study other, fairer things 
Than checkers on the pavement. In my bower 
There is a latticed window, looking forth 
On tlie great square, where figures to and fro 
Flit in gay garbs, like phantasms in a dream ; 
Proud cavaliers, bright women in their veils, 
And arch-neck'd horses striking the dull ground, 
Impetuous fire and proud obedience mingling; 
While ever and anon some sober friar 
Walks slow across, vviih russet gown, bare feet, 
And eyes that steal a twinkling glance askance 
At the brown girls, who from the Arga's shore 
Bear up the well-bleached linen : while the beggar 
Stands by the cross, drinking the mountain air, 
Feeding on sunshine, and, content to have 
What God gives freely, scarce importunes man. 
What, again musing 1 

COUNT. 

Did I muse, dear lady 1 
My mind is weak and wav'ring since this wound. 

ISABEL. 

Ay, did you muse ! Maude, get you on before ; 

[To the Attendant. 
Open the windows, that the summer wind, 
Cool'd by the jalousies, may waft him health. 
Come, cousin ! come ! We'll cure this musing fancy. 

[Exeunt. 



94 



ACT III. 

SCENE I. 

A great Hall in the Palace, decorated for a high festival ; 
the King, Queen, Counj" of Foix. Blanche lif Mavarrk, 
Don Kerdinand dk Leyda, Guests, djX., masked Attend- 
ants. Daar.e. The Queen and Don Feudinand dg 
Leyda advance. 

DON FERDINAND. 

Nay, nay! The envious mask in vain attempts 
To shroud the matchless beauty of that face. 

ISABEL {in a gay tone). 
Flattery all! Apples to monkeys; nuts 
To a squirrel ; honey to c;hildren ; gold 
To old age; bubbles to youth and manhood; 
To woman, flattery! How should you know 
'I'hal the face hid behind this sombre case 
Is not the countenance of dry old age. 
All vein'd and wrinkled, like a well-save I pippin. 
In some snug corner of a grandam's chest. 

DON FERDINAND. 

Could bounding youth with crippled age unite, 
Toit'ring infirnnty with steps of light.. 
Threescore regain the roundness of a score, 
And ten years added make those graces more. 
Yet— 

ISABEL. 

Nay. no rhyme ! None but a prince's fool 
Needs a bell'd cap to jingle when wit faints. 

DON FERDINAND. 

Well, lady, eyes like those which through the mask, 
l,ik^ twin stars shining through a stormy cloud. 
Give promise of a brighter heaven below, 
Are ne'er forgotten. 

[Isabel raises Iter hand to unlie the mask. 



35 

Nay, remove it not ! 
Or I must take a reverential tone, 
And speak as to a queen. 

ISABEL {unmasking). 

Suppose it there ! 
I must have cooler air ; and speak more freely. 
Don Ferdinand de Leyda'? 

DON FERDINAND (iviihdrawing his mask). 
Lady bright ! 

ISABEL. 

I was not mistaken. 

DON FERDINAND. 

How could you be'? 
Those bright eyes penetrate all that they see ; 
None can mistake them that e'er saw their light ; 
And they ne'er err, whate'er they light upon. 
But you were speaking of ths Count of Foix 
As we came hither from the inner hall. 

ISABEL {eagerly). 
I was, I was ! They tell me, you, my lord, 
Have seen him often since his wounds were heal'd. 
He has grown saintly lately : but I doubt 
Sick-bed conversions are with sickness ended. 

DON FERDINAND. 

And would you have them last ? 

ISABEL {turning towards him sharply). 

What mean you, sir? 
Yes, I mould have them last, at least in him ! 
What other men may do but little matters : 

[Sloivly and emphatically. 
He is my cousin, and the Princess Blanche 
My husband's sister ! Lo, he whispers her ! 
Love we expect not in a prince's marriage: 
And Blanche must share the common fate in that. 
But none knows better than yoiu-self, De Leyda, 
If rumour speaks aright your cause of quarrel, 
That yon gay scoffer at frail hearts pretends 
To less, yet greater, honours than her hand. 



36 



DON FERDINAND {after a confused pause). 
How shall I answer, madam l 

ISABEL. 

Thus, my lord, 
You know him ! Is he changed? You answer not! 
I read the answer on your brow. He's false ! 
Now, will you serve me] Will you win bright looks 
From eyes that you have praised 1 Give me the means 
Of proving unto Blanche, by his own lips, 
VN hat are his purposes! Devise some scheme 
Whereby her own ears may be witnesses 
Against his black designs, or, at the best, 
Rash hopes ! It is her good I seek ! 

DON FERDINAND (ofler a pouse). 
How can I, madam, without treachery. 
And violated trust and courtesy ] 

ISABEL {impaliently). 
Well, well, Don Ferdinand ! Is not all fair — 
So lovers say — in love and war? Nay, nay ! 
Speak no more words, vain words ! These eyes, you 

said. 
Could ne'er mistake ! I see they have mistaken ! 

DON FERDINAND. 

Not so ! not so ! I feel I am a slave. 
Tied b}"^ more puissant bonds than iron chains. 
You have but to command. Nay, not e'en that! 
I know your will. Hark how it shall be done: 
To-morrow night, when masks are all abroad. 
He revels at my house. There is a gallery. 
Where minstrels sing, that overlooks the hall, 
And from it leads a narrow corridor 
Into the dark arcade facing this palace. 
The door shall be left open ; and my page. 
Disguised, shall guide you there. If you can bring 
The ears you wish to listen ; when I see 
IMask'd faces in the gallery, I'll pique 
His vanity to utter fiery words 
"Which shall display his heart. 

ISABEL {eagerly). 

Enough! enough! 
[Seeing Blanche and the Count advancing 



37 

We are observed conversing here alone. 
Let us go on ; and, as we go, cimcert 
Those small particulars on which depend 
So often the result of mighty schemes. 

[ They move on among the crowd, while Blanche and 
the Count advance. 



Yes, yes, I know you. Think you I could speak 
To others as I speak this night to you 1 
'Tis not the form alone, though it be fair: 
And that dark mantle does its beauty shroud, 
But as light vapours veil the harvest moon. 
There may be lovely forms enough besides. 
Upon this earth, to dazzle our dim eyes : 
But the warm eloquence of those sweet lips, 
That siren song from pearl and coral cave, 
"Where fiom the heart's depth speaks the spirit forth 
On balmy breath, and gives a soul to beauty. 
None can match that ! No land, no clime, can show 
The union of such loveliness. May I 
Add but a name ? 



Nay, sir, let us go on. 
You hear the call to supper. Where's the queen I 
Oh, there ! The grace and dignity there seen 
Can ne'er be masked : let us go on, my lord. 

[Exeunt, 



SCENE II. 

The same Ballroom as in the last. Servants, JfC, carry^ 
ing across dishes, as if to supper. Enter Don Ferdi- 
nand DE Levda as from supper. The moon seen shining 
brightly through a window in the back scene. 

DON FERDINAND {dashing down his mask). 
Ay ! he thou there ! And yet I thank thee much ! 
Bred up in courts, I ne'er thought days would come 
When I should need a waxen face to hide 
My own too treacherous looks. False-hearted woman ? 
Thinks she to cozen me ? " 'Tis for her good ! 

[Mocking IsABXii. 



38 

She seeks her welfare." Serpent in fair shape, 

I understand you well ! Now might this chance 

Be easily improved by wanton skill, 

Till I, yo' confidant, became your master. 

It were a perilous and stirring game, 

Well suited to my nature and my liking; 

But I will none of it; and will find means 

To counteract your stratagems? Yet wliyl 

"Why should I stop the trial you propose 1 [Musing. 

Is this man true at heart ? I think he is ! 

I do believe that her bright looks and words, 

Like Indian suns that shine on barren sands 

Till they breed jewels, have so wrought on him. 

That holier things have gather'd in his heart 

Than e'er were hoped for there. Why, let it be! 

If truth be in hin), it will shine forth then: 

If his changed aspect be but 'the result 

Of evil purposes or moody hours, 

'Twill soon be shown. The one will prove a balm 

To her kind heart, and g've it strength and peace : 

And the reverse, if so it should appear. 

Will be a medicine of a lou.jher kind, 

But not less certain cure. [Exit. 

Enter Isabel hurriedly. 

ISABEL. 

She pass'd this way. 
And I could see him from the other table 
Watch every look and movement. Lo, she comes, 
Musing and lonely. She seeks solitude. 
He'll follow soon : where can 1 hide a while ! 

[Conceals herself. 

Enter Blanche, advancing thoughtfully to the front, with 
her hands clasped. 

BLANCHE. 

Could I but trust it ! But I dare not trust. 
Is there a traitor in my breast takes part 
Against my honest judgment? Yet her wiles — 
For even I, unwilling as I am, 
Must see those painful wiles with each light art 
To call his looks. Those wiles now scarcely win 
A scanty courtesy from one so courteous ! 
Yet can it be ! My brother's wife use wiles 



39 

To will admiring looks from other men ? 

Heaven clear my mind of doubts too terrible ! 

It cannot be ! No, no, it cannot be ! 

She's thoughtless, rash, young, gay, and somewhat fro- 

ward ; 
But oh, not evil ! No, no ! it cannot be ! 

[She pauses a moment inusing. The Count enters be- 

hmd. 

BLANCHE. 

Hark! 'tis his foot! How well I know that step! 
And yet have heard it seldom. Lie thee still, 
Thou beating heart ! Coward in garrison, 
Thy terror will betray to other eyes 
The weakness of the place. 

COUNT. 

You've left the hall, 
Lady, and taken half our light away. 

BLANCHE. 

The air was sultry and oppressive there : 
Have you not seen, ray lord, in some hot days, 
Before a summer thunder-storm, the birds 
Fly from their leafy shades they love so well. 
And, perching on the topmost boughs, sit silent, 
Drinking each breath of air ? 

COUNT. 

Oft have I, lady ; and perhaps I could 
Pursue the figure : but my heart's too full 
Of earnest truths to sport itself with fancies. 
I have dared to seek you ; yet I scarcely know 
How 1 may tell you why. 

BLANCHE {calmly, after a pause). 

I cannot think 
There's anything that you may have to say 
Can trouble you to speak. 

COUNT. 

You judge too coldly ! 
There was a time, indeed, that these prompt lips 
Ne'er wanted words to tell a tale of love ; 
And the vain consciousness gave ready flow 
To that which pass'd for eloquence. Perhaps 



40 

The very want of heartfelt truth might yield 
Wild freedom to the unembarrass'd tongue. 
All is now changed ! My earnestness of heart 
Makes my voice falter. Nay, that heart itself 
Is faint beneath the weight of its rich burden. 
Hope, in the deep intensity of love. 
With flaggijig pillion all luiwonted, droops, 
As if the far-off goal could ne'er be reach'd. 
There was a time I could have spoken blithely; 
There was a time I could have dared all earth 
For objects which, compared to what 1 seek. 
Are as a pebble to an emp'ror's crown : 
And yet I cannot now find voice' to tell 
Hopes on which hang the happiness of life. 

BLANCHE {coldly). 

I can but guess what are those hopes, my lord ; 
Hut it appe,irs you would regale me now 
With words used many a thousand lime before 
To other ears more willing than mnie own. 

COUNT. 

A cold and cutting answer, well deserv'd ; 

Yet — though not ill-deserved — you do me wrong! 

Such wiirds these lips have ne'er before pronounced 

To any being on this breathing earth : 

They are as true as your own faithful heart ; 

As pure as your bright thoughts; sincere and strong 

As are the purposes of right within 

That heavenly bosom's holiest tabernacle ! 

I speak more freely now. A moment since, 

The sense of my unworthiness o'erpower'd 

The strength of hope, the eagerness of love. 

And left me wellnigh voiceless in your presence. 

But, lady, you have made the disiam-e less, 

Narrow'd the gulf bet ween us ; and I dare — 

While owning that I love you more than life — 

To say, Blanche of Navarre, you've done me wrong f 

BLANCHE {at first eagerly, then falter mghj) . 
Now, Heaven forbid, my lord* If 1 wronged you 
By one ungenerous thought, no pain that thought 
Could e'er inflict on you would match my grief. 
I have had hope — and — and — it matters not ! 

COUNT. 

Nay, nay ! Speak more ! There is a melody 



41 

Hangs on those lips, that, like the nightingale's, 

Is slill enclvaiuing, though the song be sad. 

I have presumed too much : yet hear me speak. 

At limes your eyes have look'd a bright approval. 

Arid your smile lit me on a rugged path. 

I know I am unworthy ! You and love 

Have taught me so, lor they have taught me, too, 

The love of virtue and distaste of vice. 

You frown'd when first we met : Oh, Blanche ! frown 

still, 
Upon that creature of the past. My heart 
Is changed, and I no more the same. View me 
As you yourself have made me. Look upon 
That which is gone as but a masking suit, 
Which cloak'd the visage of my natural mind 
In an unseemly garb. You smile, bright angel; 
Oh ! smile thou slill, to give my weary feet 
Strength, hope, encouragement upon the way 
Which this sweet hand first clearly pointed out. 
Oh Blanche, smile still! 

[Takes her hand, which she does not withdraw. 

BLANCHE {with much agitation). 

How shall I answer himi 
Plain truth, my lord, which I have ever held 
Belter than courtly arts, will not affect 
To misconceive a meaning that is clear. 
But your words startle me! Let me suppose 
Blanche of Navarre could give no honest hope 
That you might e'er receive her hand ; say you, 
That object gone, you ever could fail back 
From the high path your belter thoughts have chosen, 
Into dark errors past and now deplored? 

THE COUNT {letting her hand drop, and after clasping his 

own-together, and musing for a moment). 
No, Blanche ! (jh no ! I know that woman's heart 
Oft wants but an excuse, such as the hope 
Of wiiniing back from wrong, to love and trust. 
But God forbid I should speak words untrue. 
Or seek to win yon by a false reply : 
No ! Pure, and beautiful, and good, and bright, 
My truth shall gain you, or my death end all ! 
No ! If your heart can ne'er be given to me ; 
If the dark stains of vices gone can ne'er 



42 

Be wash'd away, and you cannot forget 
What I have been ; or if, more painful still, 
In other days, love, early love, came nigh, 
And closed affection's gales on all besides. 
Though you should ne'er be mine, I still am yours, 
Yours, Blanche, and virtue's. At your feet I own 

[Kneeling. 
That you have conquer'd me, humbled, convinced, 
Amended, and for ever. Memory 
Shall keep me pure if love must be denied; 
The light from ihee, and from thy lips that shone 
Into my soul like sunshine scattering night. 
Shall ne'er depart till life's last sun go down. 
And men pile up the cold earth on my breast, 
Which shall be lighter then for having loved thee. 

BLANCHE (much agitated). 
Rise ! rise ! I fear that the resolves of passion 
Are not more firm than those of a sick bed ; 
Yet I would fain believe — and though no promise 
Ought 1 to give — and dare say little yet — 
Suffice it, I have never yet seen one, 
I never saw till — till — I am confused. 
And know not what to say. It matters not; 
I mean my heart is free. It may be won 
By upright honour and plain worthiness ; 
We have all seen the sunshine look more bright 
For a past storm fringing the distant sky. 
So we may hope Heaven looks on earth's repentance, 
And if Heaven, why not man ? 

COUNT {joyfully). 

Enough ! enough ! 
Beloved, thou hast said enough ! I know 
The noble pureness of thy generous heart; 
I know, by sad comparison with others, 
The candid truth that sits upon those lips 
Too well, too well to doubt, that these few words, 
Plain, simple, gentle as they are, imply 
A hope, a consolation, nay. a promise. 
Forgive me if I seem too confident. 
Were you less noble, I might feel less bold ; 
But in my boldness I am humble still ; 
Humble, yet undismay'd. Upon myself. 
On my own deeds, I feel, depends my fate. 
Blanche is my own if true unto myself! 



43 

Henceforth, most beautiful, T take my way 

As does a pilgrim, with before his eyes, 

High raised on some blue mountain's cloudly brow, 

The shrine to which his steps for ever tend : 

Above him far, but still the end and aim 

Of hope and effort, I'll not doubt my joy; 

For naught but folly, weakness, or despair, 

Can make me turn or falter on my way. 

BLANCHE {smiling on him). 
Are you so confident 1 

COUNT. 

I am, beloved ! 
A monarch's sister and a monarch's child. 
Perchance thou think'st it, bold, Francis of Foix 
Prince though he be within his own small land — 
Should raise his daring hopes to one who well 
Might see earth's conq'rors kneeling at her feet. 
But, Blanche, I tell thee, and I tell thee true, 
That never sovereign of thy house — howe'er 
In arms renown'd — has won a victory 
So great as thine ; I will not say o'er me. 
For that were vanity; but thou hast gain'd 
A triumph o'er a stubborn human heart, 
Pamper'd with pride, nourish'd with bad success, 
Strengthen'd with idle fame, and leading on, 
In iron habits arm'd, a host of errors. 
Follies, and vices, to wage war against 
One being bright and beautiful, alone, 
Weapon'd with wisdom, panoplied in virtue. 

Kissing her hand. 
Lady, I speak in all humility : 
And when I kiss this gentle hand, 'tis but 
As the chain'd captive, humbled, bending low 
Before the power which brought a wilful L'-art 
Into subjection. [Queen passes across behind. 

COUNT {continuing). 
But thou start'st — turn'st pale — 
Have I offended ? 

BLANCHE {fearfully and looking round). 
No ! oh no ! 
There was a shadow slowly cross'd the floor, 
As if between U3 and yon silv'ry moon, 
D2 



44 

That through the casement watches us with light 
Like Heaven's own eye — some human form had pass'd. 
There was a stately motion, too ; a grace, 
A noiseless dignity, e'en in that shade. 
Could it have been the queen I 

COUNT. 

I cannot tell ! 
But, if it were, what matters it, sweet Blanche 1 

BLANCHE. 

Much, much, my lord ! It matters much indeed ! 
My part is done, yours still is to be play'd. 
But till you've won — against yourself, not me — 
1 must not spend more private time with you. 

COUNT. 

Fear not, beloved ! If by word or deed 

I e'er forswear this fealty (kisses her hand) and homage, 

Trample upon me as a renegade, 

And no bright eyes smile ever on me more! 

Nay, I will go with tliee into the crowd ; 

Bid me not hide the love that I am proud of. 

Blush thou this night, sweet Blanche ! Thou never more 

Shalt blush to call me thy companion. 



SCENE III. 

Banquet-room in the house of Don Ferdinand de Lkyda 
(iameas Scene II., Act I)., Musicians in the gallery. 
Count de Foix ; Don Ferdinand ; French and Navar- 
rese Nobles, Attendants, &c. 

[Music. 

don FERDINAND (woving his hand to the musicians). 
Cease ! cease, and leave us ! We now thank you well 
For your sweet sounds, that come like words in visions, 
Waking sensations vague, but vast and fine, 
Without a definite interpreter 
In the corporeal sense. [Exeunt musicians. 

OON FERDINAND (to the Servants). 

Now quick, dull knaves, 
Set our dessert out here, where we may gaze 



45 

From this balcony on the joyous world, 
That revels there below in this gay season. 

[Servants bring forward tables and fruit]. 

THE COUNT {advancing). 
The multitude ! 1 love the multitude, 
To gaze upon them in their holyday, 
And think, though fate and fortune are resolved 
1 on another stage should move from them, 
There is not one that passes 'iieath mine eyes 
Who has not some aftections in his breast; 
Hope, fear, love, sorrow, care, the thought of home, 
Kind feehngs, aspirations sweet, regrets, 
Ay, noble thoughis, too, and ingenuous pride. 
That claim a kindred with my heart, and warm 
In me the drop of Adam's blood that still 
Lingers in veins of nations numberless. 
And makes mankind all brothers. Here we're well. 

DON FERDINAND {seating himself so that he can see the mu- 
sicians'' gallery, the count having his back towards it). 

Here can we see the whole ! Since last we met 

In jovial converse, my most noble friend. 

We've pass'd through somewhat sterner entertainment : 

And now, once more, I hold you forth my hand, 

In friendly greeting, not the less sincere 

That we have striven in manly contest too. 

W^e've drained each other's blood ; let's drain this cup, 

As pledge and warrant of a long-lived friendship. 

[The attendants ^/Z the cups o/Don Ferdinand and 
the Count, while the Queen is seen to draw Blanche 
forward into the gallery above, both masked. 

DON FERDINAND {seeing them enter). 
But let me add, as well I think I may. 
From the bright looks of last night's festival, 
The toast we late refused. Now doing right 
Unto your amorous eloquence, 1 give 
Your last bright conquest, sir — Blanche of Navarre! 
[The Navarrese lords whisper together. The Count 
suddenly sets down the cup, pauses for a moment, and 
then raises it again. 

count. 
With willir^g heart, noble Don Ferdinand, 



46 

I drink to our perpetual amity. 
Born of esteem, and nursed hy sturdy strife! 
But would you drink to my last conquest, lords, 
Drink Id llie mighty conquest o'er myself! 
When last we met, with childish vanity, 
1 boasted I would conquer her (whom now 
1 scarce dare name coupled with idle words), 
Or she should conquer me. Hers is the victory! 
Give her renown! I own myself o'ercome, 
Humbled, abased; and as 1 love her still. 
More far than life and all that life can give. 
No hand in all Navarre shall couch the lance 
So willingly as this, against that man 
Who dares but breathe upon her diamond fame, 
And cloud it, but an instant, with suspicion. 
Come, knights and nobles, fill unto the brim, 
And drink with me the good, the bright, the fair, 
An angel's spirit in an angel's form. 
With no one touch of earth save gentleness. 
Queen of all noble hearts! — Blanche of Navarre! 

[After the pause of an instant, many of the Navarrese 
nobles stretch out their hands to the Count, drink- 
ing to " Blanche of Navarre ;" at the same time 
there is a movement in the gallery above. 

DON JOHN {pointing to the gallery). 
We have spectators there ! A lady faints ! 
Let us go succour her! 

DON FERDINAND {stopping him). 
Nay, I beseech ! 
Most likely 'tis my sister! Foolish child ! 
She has maids there enow. Lo, they are gone! 
We'll close the night with wine. 

[The drop scene descends to dumb show. 



47 

ACT IV. 

SCENE I. 

A Chamber in the Palace. King ant? Queen seated: the 
Queen half embracing the King, and jceeping. One or 
two Maids behind. An Officer at each door. A Page 
on the right side of the King. 

KING (^0 the Page). 
Let her be calTd again! But lo ! she comes. 

[Enter Blanche in a masquerade dress, but unmasked. 

KING. 

How is this, fair sister ■? You still have held 

A name of truth and honesty ; but now 

How comes it, that the simple confidence 

Of our fair queen, yet unexperienced 

In this laud's customs, should be so misled 

B}' you, her husband's sister, nurtured long 

In all this people's habits, as to go 

With a gay troop, transform'd and mask'd, to sport 

Amid the drunken rabble of the city 

During the festival 1 

BLANCHE. 

Were you not one ? 

KING. 

I one, my sister"? Blanche, you know full well, 
In boyhood's lightest days, 1 prized my state 
Well, far too well, to risk my dignity 
In ribald sports like those that soil this night. 

BLANCHE. 

I was assured, my lord, most solemnly, 

That you were oue. Against niy better judgment, 

Against each reason I could urge — 

ISABEL. 

She seeks 
To cast the blame on me ! You've heard, my lord, 



48 

The story of the guard who kept the gates ; 
How she return'd alone, behind the rest, 
Lingering some hall" hour in the open streets 
On this disorder'd night. 

KING. 

What say you, Blanche ? 

BLANCHE. 

When you may hear me, Plulip. to an end. 

Then will 1 speak; and though my heart may burn 

'I'o hear the words that I have heard, no sound 

Of just complaint shall hurl my brother's ear. 

This night, when you held counsel, I was sought 

By your fair bride, and told to make me ready 

'I'o jom the masking groups that throng the .streets. 

At once I answer'd, nay ; and farther said, 

'I'hal it was not the custom of the laud 

Our rosal house should mingle with the crowd 

Of idle revellers ou nights like these. 

But I was told that you, sir, gave consent. 

And would be present; and that your commands — 

ISABEL {vehemently). 
'Tis false ! 'tis false ! 

BLANCHE. 

Let me say on ! If false, the falsehood soon 
May be made manifest. My brother's name 
Silenced remonstrance: 1 ohey'd, not yielded; 
And, enjoin'd to silence till we left the palace. 
Went forth with all the rest. In the great square 
Some sudden terror seem'd to seize the queen; 
And with a hurried step she drew me through 
A long dark passage, grasping tight my wrist, 
Till siiddeidy I found myself above — 
III a high gallery — a banquet hall 
Thronged full of nobles. Navarrese and French. 
They saw me not; but I heard words enough 
To make my heart feel faint, and I had dropp'd 
Had not the lady hurried me away. 

Ere my bevvilder'd brain could gather sense. 
She left me in the streets; and with much fear, 
Gibed at by many, treated as a wanton. 
Confused in crowds, and almost dead with shame, 
Hither I slowly made at last my way. 



49 

QUEEN {rismg angrily, and wiping away the tears). 
M)' lord, if 'lis your will, well pleased to hear 
Yuur bride maligii'd, insulted, ai\d belied, 
/ will retire, for /can bear no more. 
1 have no art to gloze the simple truth. 
My tale is toM, and I have naught to add. 
If I so left her, how is it that I, 
Who know not well this city's narrow streets, 
Found my way hither half an hour before her 1 
I scorn myself that I should say one word 
In my defence. Believe which tale you will. 
If hers be true, I am unworthy, sure, 
To be your bride! I'm ready now, my lord. 
To tread my footsteps back to my own land; 
And, though I go in grief, but one 
Shall wring this loving heart, and with me go 
D()v\n to the sad grave, dug by your unkindness, 
Regret for losing you, so loved in vain ! [Exit weeping. 

KING {to blanche). 

She thinks that you encouraged her to go. 

BLANCHE. 

Philip, my lips are seal'd ; but you and I 

Have from the cradle risen up together. 

My thoughts have still been open to your eyes, 

My actions and my words trying each other. 

If e'er, through life, you've known one doubtful tale 

Pass from these lips; if ever you have mark'd 

One coward falsehood lurking at my heart, 

If ever have my deeds belied my speech, 

Then doubt me now. But if from infancy. 

Until this hour, plain truth has been my comrade, 

Guided my thoughts, ruled e'en my childish sports, 

Oh, do me justice ! And, so help me Heaven, 

As all I've said is true. 

KING. 

I will not doubt thee, Blanche ! I do not doubt! 

I know that sldl, vvhate'er the question was. 

Thy heart, from infancy till now, would open 

Frank, guileless, like a flower in the sun. 

Showing its inmost hues. Nay, grieve not, Blanche! 

How oft a word mistaken proves the cause 

Of enmity between the noblest ! 



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52 

MAID. 

It may be so ! 
But even if they would. I'd thank them little 
For boon that 1 desire not. I am well 
When you are well. 1 do but grieve to see 
My princess, born to reign in every breast, 
And belter all she sees, sit here without 
One heart to teach or toucfi save hearts of stone, 
'Tis that which breaks my own. 

BLANCHE. 

Grieve not for me, 
Good girl. T, too, at first, fancied the hours 
Must weigh upon the prisoner heavily : 
That all around me, grown familiar soon, 
Would pall upon the eye : titat want of life 
And interchange of varied thought, would leave 
An aching void in every day's desires. 
But all such apprehensions are long gone. 
Hearts are less slowly tutored than we think 
To hear the lot that fortune's hand assigns. 
If we but take it meekly. Those dark rocks, 
Those blue and mighty mountains, and the clouds 
That flit across their bosoms, and th^^ gleams 
That diadem their ancient heads with rays. 
Seem to hold daily commune with m.y thoughts, 
Like old friends talking of the early days, 
When every daisy was a miracle. 
My hope in God, my love of his bright works. 
Can never leave my heart all desolate ! 
But go, good girl; my hours are not so dull 
As you perchance have thought. [Exit Maid. 

BLANCHE {cftrr a momenCs pause). 

Nor am I e'er 
So little lonely as when I'm alone : 
The busy memories of one most dear 
Surround me then, thronging the vacant space 
With moving images of all he does. 
Thinks, feels, endmes, for her imprison'd here. 
Still does he love me ] — Yes ! I will believe — 
Nay ! 'Twere unworthy now to hold a doubt. 
My ears were witness to the right he did me. 
And those dear sounds have charm'd captivity- 
Through many a heavy hour. 



• 53 

[While she speaks the Count enters behind, disguised 
as a pilgrim. 

Francis of Foix, 
Couldst thou but know my comfort in those words — • 
But who is here ! 

[The Count advancing, and kneeling at her feet. 

COUNT. 

Dost thou forgive me, Blanche ? 
Dost thou forgive an act of seeming rashness, 
Risking at once discovery of my love, 
To set the loved one free ? 

BLANCHE {agitated). 

Oh, can you doubt? 

COUNT. 

Yet hear, dear Blanche ! Beneath the sun there shines 

No jewel rare I covet as this hand. 

Yet do not deem that, for my brightest hopes, 

I would take vantage from the wrong they do thee, 

To win that hand more easily ! Hear, then ! 

And trust me, Blanche. 

BLANCHE. 

And I do trust thee, Francis. 

COUNT. 

'Tis not alone to sun me in thine eyes 

For a brief hour of joy that brings me hither: 

I come to free thee, dear one! All prepared 

For instant flight, promises safe escape : 

But, ere thou go'sl, remember, by thai act, 

Thou dost decide thy fate and mine for ever. 

Think not, beloved, it is passion speaks. 

But for thine own pure name; a name become 

Dear to my bosom as a soldier's honour : 

I urge thee to remember, if thou fliest. 

As Heaven forbid thou shouldst not ! thou must give, 

Without or pause, or fear, or preparation. 

This hand, this best of boons, to one whom still 

Thou mayst regard with doubt and fear. 

BLANCHE. 

Oh no ! 
Both doubt and fear are dead ! Another lime 



54 • 

I'll tell thee how these great foes were subdued ! 
Suffice it for me now, without false shame, 
To say I ne'er can fear while I but know 
Tluue arm protects me and thine honour guards. 

COUNT. 

Dear Blancne, thou do'st me right, and only right ! 

Wert thou to wander with me through the world 

Alone and unprotected, wrong'd by those 

God gave thee for thy succour, safe — oh safe, 

As sister or as cliild--fri)m deed, or word, 

Or thought that could offend thee, shouldst thou be ! 

But oh, remember! in times gone, I've done 

To my own name foul wrong; and thou must give 

A rigiit, holy and pure, to guard and guide thee, 

Lest, from my follies past, men's tongues should take 

Occasion to fix slanders on thy name. 

If thou fliest with me, Blanche — and thou wilt fly — 

At the first village or the loneliest shrine, 

Where'er the altar's service may be found, 

This hand, by vows clear and irrevocable. 

Must be fast link'd to mine — 

[Blanche covers her face with her hand, and sinks back 
into her chair. 

COUNT {kneeling beside her). 

Thou turnest pale ; 
The colour comes and goes upon thy cheek. 

BLANCHE. 

'Tis nothing ! nothing ! It will pass away ! 

COUNT. 

Oh doubt me not, dear Blanche ! Oh doubt me not ! 

Couldst thou but tell how alter'd is this heart. 

How changed eacli feeling by its love for thee, 

Thou wouldst not doubt me; thou wouldst then believe, 

That, though the time has been when fame for evil 

Was no unpleasing sound to my vain ear, 

I now as soon would have men call me coward, 

As act of mine should stain thine honour'd name. 

BLANCHE {earnestly). 
I know it! Oh, I know it! I have heard — 
When thou didst think no ears but scoffers heard — 
Thy generous lips do justice to poor Blanche : 



55 

And her heart thanked thee, Francis ! Yes ! I know 
Th-.it thou wilt, love me, that ihou wilt be true ; 
That, when Blanche gives her happiness to thee 
In charge — as men, parting for distant lands, 
Give ilieir best treasures to soine well-tried friend — 
Thou, faithful to the trust, will keep it sure, 
That no grain be diminished in thy hands. 
I doubt no more ! Oh no, I doubt no more ! 

COUNT. 

Then wherefore hesitate 1 Then wherefore fearl 

BLANCHE. 

I did not hesitate ; I was but moved ! 

If I turn pale, it is not ih'at I doubt. 

Oh, Francis, with weak hearts like that of woman, 

Emotion often changes looks with fear. 

COUNT {embracing her). 
Then thou art mine, beloved ; and thy love 
Shall ever be the safeguard of my heart. 
Before another dny goes down, the vow 
Shall bind us at the altar heart to heart. 
Here unto thee — here, in the sight of Heaven, 
Which sees us both, I take a wider vow — 
To dedicate existence unto thee ; 
As thou hast changed my nature and my heart, 
To make thy happiness thnt heart's sole object ; 
Not merely to repay thee love for love. 
But to exceed all thou canst feel or show ; 
And for this joyful moment to pay back — 
Oh, price inadequate ! — a life of love. 
My Blanche! my beautiful! my own ! 

'[She bends her head down upon Ins shoulder, but starts 
at the step of the Maid. 



They come ! 



{Enter Maid.) 



COUNT. 

'Tis but the girl ! I saw her as I pass'd. 

Hie thee, good Bertha ; bring those pilgrims' gowns 

I cast down in the anteroom. Is all 

The rest prepared 1 

E2 



56 

MAID {going out, and returning with disguises). 
All's ready, my good lord ! 
Here are the gowns ! Nay, fear not, lady dear! 
The heart says Yes, though lips, perchance say No ! 



Hush, hush ! She says not No. There is no risk, 

Nor any cause for fear. Three comrades tried 

Still keep the captain of the hold below, 

Pouring forth revel cups to idle toasts. 

I left him with a rolling, glassy eye. 

And tongue too big for utt'rance ; but, ere that, 

Upon pretence of needful haste, I gain'd 

This pass under his hand ; at which the gates 

Must needs be open'd at whatever hour 

May please me to go forth with all my train. 

There is no limit to the number given. 

The night which shall conceal us must be nigh; 

For lo, where that high cloud above the hill 

Grows rosy with the sun, which sets far off. 

Hid by the mountains from our eyes! More red 

And redder still it glows, while we see naught 

To call those blushes up, like some fair cheek 

Colouring at a distant signal, known 

To one fond ear, but heard by it alone. 

Now fades the red away again, as if 

Emotion made the very vapour pale. [Stage groivs dark. 

How the shades creep upon us in these hills! 

Stay; ] will see if all is safe below. 

My comrades at a sign will steal away 

As if lo rest. 

[Going, he pauses to listen ; distant sound loithout. 

COUNT. 

But hark, what sound is thaf? 
A horse's feet coming at hottest speed. 

BLANCHE {sadly). 
'Tis all in vain! Thine absence from the court 
Has told enough. Fly, Francis ! fly, beloved ! 

COUNT. 

What, without thee 1 Cast on the cloak, dear Blanche : 
We still have time ! The captain's senses reel'd 
When last I left him. Now they've fallen outright. 



57 

My comrades wait us. In the dell below- 
Full twenty sturdy men at arms lie hid, 
Waiting the lord whom they have often foUow'd 
To deeds more perilous than these, my Blanche. 
Let us but reach them ; and, in these defiles, 
If any snatch tiiee from beneath this sword. 
Laugh thou a name, renowned once, to scorn! 
Call my good lance a bulrush! and declare 
That love, the prince of victory, has made 
Francis of Foix a spinner at a wheel ! 
Hark, the sounds near us, winding round the hill; 
A moment's hesitation ruins all. 

[Casting the cloak over her. 
This once I rule thee, gentle Blanche. Fear not, 
But thy sweet rule shall have its triumph soon. 

[_Exeunt. As they go out, a trumpet sounds. 



SCENE m. 

A Mountain Scene, very barren. The Castle of Llanora 
in the distance, with bright lights seen passing along the 
casements. Trumpets. 

Enter the Count of Foix, Blanche of Navarre, Maid, 
Gentlemen attending the Count, Men at Arms, <5fc., in 
haste. 

THE COUNT {looking round and drawing his sword). 
We must stand here! [Trumpets.] They come upon 

us close ! 
The ground beyond is open. Gaspard, hark '. 

[To one of the Men at Arms. 
Lead on the lady where the horses stand; 
And guide her quickly o'er the frontier line! 
My cousin, D'Albret, cannot be far off, 
And the pick'd band 1 bade him bring with him. 



Francis, 1 will not leave thee ! Even here 

I'll stand, and see thee do great deeds, and win, 

Or I'll die with thee if thou winuest not : 



58 

For well I know that, with a stake like this, 
Nothing but death will bear thy good blade down 

[ Trumpets. 

COUNT. 

Away, away, beloved ! Wouldst thou, Blanche, 
My looks should turn to thee, and leave my breast 
A mark for every adverse sword to strike ! 
Away, sweet girl ! These are no scenes for thee ! 
Scarce half a furlong off the horses stand. 
Not far beyond thou'lt find another troop 
Of my brave soldiers! Send them quickly down 
To aid their lord. Fear not! All will go well! 
Adieu, adieu, sweet girl! 

{He embraces her. Exeunt Blanche, weeping, and 
Gaspard. 

COUNT {looking up to Heaucn). 
And she is gone ! 
Say, holy Heaven, shall we e'er meet again 1 
Oh yes! oh yes! The strong right arm of God, 
Mighty to right the wrong'd, shall strike for me, 
And win the battle for tlie pure and good ! {Trumpets. 
Take vantage there, my men ! defend the pass 
Round yon sharp rock! Down the steep precipice, 
Into the river, plunge the rasher men 
That tempt the brink! The rest stand firmly there! 
{Exeunt. Men at Arms passing around the vaiious 
parts of the rocks. Alarums and charges on the 
trumpets sounded. Two or three pass over the stage 
fighting hand to hand : among the rest, the Count 
of Foix and a Navarrese Officer. Fresh parties of 
the Count's troops appear, driving the Naimrrese 
sejore them. Retreat sounding) as the drop scene 
falls. 



ACT V. 

SCENE I. 

A Cave in the mountains. Blanche, the Maid, and after- 
ward the Priest, as a Hermit. Thunder and lightning. 

blanche. 
Methinks the storm grows worse and worse each hour 
Now Heaven protect the good man on his way ! 



59 

Yet wherefore doubt it ? Shall the arm that hurls 

The leven bolls not hurl those bolts aright^ 

But hark, he comes. [Enter Priest, as a Hermit. 

Good father, welcome back ! 
My heart sunk for thee when I heard the roar 
Following close upon the fiery dart 
Of the fell lightning. Not that I did doubt 
God's special rule; but 'twas that thou hadst gone, 
In the fierce storm, to ease this aching heart, 
By gaining tidings of last night's events. 

PRIEST. 

I fear'd not, lady ! Not too confident, 

But well prepared in hope and trust, I went, 

Marking the way, until I reach'd the spot 

Where your poor jennet, that the lightning smote. 

Lav a sad sight, with all its grace relax'd, 

Its fiery strength all motionless and gone. 

There found I marks of many another steed, 

As if some party mounted had stood round 

To view the spot. The horses' feet 1 traced 

To the small village two leagues hence, and there 

Heard how the count had come in search of you. 

BLANCHE {eagerly). 
But was he safe, good father; all unhurt ? 
For well I know no wound that could be borne 
Would stop him now. 



Yes, yes ! He was unhurt ! 
Except the gnawing wound of anxious care, 
No wound had he.;. At the small hostelry 
He stay'd, and questions manifold he ask'd, 
Which they could answer not. Then angrily. 
The people said, for one named Gaspard call'd he. 
Reproaching him for leaving his high charge. 
And coming back, though 'twas to bring him succour. 
In a word, quickly he joumey'd forward. 
But there all trace was lost ; and I return'd, 
Joyful enough, to tell that he is safe ! 

BLANCHE. 

A moment past, that word had been enough 
Ff»r my heart also! Now I'd fain know more. 
God give me counsel how I shall act next ! 



60 

PRIEST. 

By humble lips he gives it ; even mine ! 
Lady, set out this very hour, before 
'J'he quick pursuers come. The frontier pass'd 
Shall give you safety ; for, at no great distance, 
Between Toulouse and Tarbes, the French king's camp 
Still lies. Seek you his presence. He is just, 
Good, noble. Christian. Bid him right your wrongs, 
Or at the least protect you ! 

BLANCHE {sadly). 

Oh, good father, 
Bethink thee what a camp may be to one 
Who comes, as I come, without friend or pass, 
Seeking my way mid ribald soldiery ! 
Shall 1 the king's pavilion ever reach T 
If there, how find an entrance ? Who'll believe 
It is the Princess of Navarre that comes 
On foot, without attendniits, wobegone, 
With weary limbs, and garments travel-stain'd ? 
The brutal guards may drive me from the tent; 
Coarse jibes and jests may set my cheek afire; 
No secure place shall cover my tired head, 
And my distress shall make the sworders' sport. 
Fruitless, but in the fruit of grief, I'd go ; 
And fruitless, but in bitter fruit, return ! 

PRIEST. 

I will go with thee, daughter. It may be 
A bitter task ihat thou shalt undertake : 
Pain may befall thee, anguish wring thy heart, 
And generous indignation tire thy cheek ; 
But greater anguish were it far, to tfaink. 
In years to come, that thou didst now forego 
The only means to save the man thou lovest! 
Nay, start not, lady, at the words I speak ! 
I've said it, and those words are very true. 
Unto thy brother's court the count has gone, 
Misled by false reports that thou hadst lurn'd 
Thy steps in that direction. If I know 
The power there ruling, he had better far 
Have tried the fiery furnace, or the den 
Of angry lions, like the captive prophet. 
I had not told thee this : but — 

BLANCHE. 

Oh ! no more ! 



61 

It is enough, good father ! Let us go ! 
"Womanly fear and bashfuhiess, adieu ! 
My cause is just, my heart, loo, shall be firm. [Exeunt. 



SCENE II. 

A large Gothic Hall in the Palace of Pampeluna. A har, 
as for a court, running across. The Slates of Navarre 
sitting. The King on the throne: the Chancellor of 
Navarre on the right near the bar, but within it. A 
crowd of People on either side of the Stage near the bar, 
but without the .ipace appropriated to the States, and near- 
er to the Audience. The Count of Foix disguised 
among the crowd. 

CHANCELLOR (addressing the States). 
This impost has the king, with your consent, 
Most excellent, confirmd and order'd ! 
All laws, as you have seen, are made more strict, 
To punish the offences which may call 
Heaven's vengeance on our heads, if not soon check d! 
One edict but remains, on which I claim 
Your prompt obedience to your sovereign's will. 
'Tis one, indeed, forbidding all discussion, 
As it affects his crown and person more 
Than any common inl'rest of the land. {Murmurs. 

CHANCELLOR. 

vSilence among the people ! Hark ! my lords ; 

The formal words and language of this law 

Are needless to repeat. Thus runs the title : 

[He reads.] " Philip the King, and his good states, to all 

His faithful subjects : An edict to deprive 

Blanche of Navarre, her children and her heirs, 

For evermore of every right and title 

To the succession of these realms ; of all 

Part, share, or portion, claim or right unto 

The rich possessions of the king her father; 

And to declare that princess dead in law, 

And fallen from all her honours !" 



62 

PERSONS IN THE CROWD {clamorovsly). 
Out on it! 
Fy! fy ! shame, shame! out on it! shame! 
Our native princess ! What ! the Princess Blanche ! 
Out on the dotard ! shame ! 

AN OLD DEPUTY OF THE STATES {when sUeuce IS restored). 

This is, my lord, 
A harsh and odious thing, which must be weigh'd! 
For though we own all duty to our lord, 
The nobles of Navarre can never see 
Such stern acts dealt against their native princess, 
And put upon the record of the states, 
Without some powerful motive, well approved. 
Inscribed therewith, to justify the deed. 

CHANCELLOR. 

Motive ! What motive to a loyal subject 

But the king's will is needed 1 But if more 

Were wanting here ; if more were claim'd by men^ 

Headstrong and hard-mouth'd, keen to disobey, 

Motives enough, not difficult to find. 

Could be alleged for this most righteous act. 

ONE OF THE DEPUTIES. 

Speak, my good lord ! We long to know those motives I 

CHANCELLOR. 

Alas! alas! that 1 of all men living 

Should be call'd forth by duty to declare 

The bitter shame brought on my master's house I 

Why should you ask for motives 1 Is there one 

Here present ignorant, that she who held 

So high a station in the thoughts of men, 

Has lost that estimation by such deeds 

As well might shame a wanton T Was she not. 

By her kind brother's care, removed from scenes 

In which her conduct proved that danger lurk'd, 

To a calm home, whence lately she escaped — 

Though treated with all tenderness — to fly 

With her false paramour, the Count of Foix? 

(a voice frmn among the crowd.) 
'Tis false as hell ! 

[The King starts up: but the Chancellor interpo- 
ses, pointing to the spot whence the voice proceeded. 



63 

CHANCELLOR. 

Arrest him, officer! 
Seize on yon traitor, who has dared to give 
The lie unto his sovereign's solemn charge 
Here made with heartfelt agony, against 
A misled sister, loved, ah ! but too well. 
Seize on that man, I say, who dares declare 
Blanche of Navarre has not disgraced her name 
By flying as the wanton paramour 
Of a French minion ! 

THE COUNT {advancing through the crowd, and throwing off 

his disguise). 

It is false as hell ! 
Caitiff, I tell you it is false as hell ! 
Profligate churchman! Poor degraded king! 
I tell ye both, your reptile charge is false : 
I, Count of Foix, here give you both the lie 
Unto your beards ; hurl back upon your heads 
Your slanders; and call Heaven to witness 
How ye belie the good, the pure, the true ! 

CHANCELLOB {in a calm tone, after whispering to an Officer 

behind him). 
My Lord of Foix, your presence here to-day 
May well surprise us all, having good cause 
To judge that you had quitted this poor realm ! 

COUNT. 

Cause ! I tell thee thou hast none but malice, 
For all that drops like poison from thy tongue. 

CHANCELLOR. 

Since you are here, however, we must now 
Suspend our judgment, and adjourn the States 
To give more time for calm investigation. 
'Tis happy, I may say, most happy, sir. 
That you have come. We shall have ample time — 
[While the Chancellor speaks, the Officers come 
round, mingling ivith the crowd behind the Count. 

CHANCELLOR {raising his hand suddenly/). 
Now ! now ! [The Officers seize the Count. 

CHANCELLOR. 

Yes, happy 'tis you're come, I say, 
F 



64 

Noble Lord Count of Foix, to meet at once 

The due reward and thanks for all the deeds, 

The chivalrous deeds, with which you've graced our 

land : 
The soldiers of the king assail'd and slain : 
His sister basely carried off, seduced : 
His frontier castles, as a spy, examined, 
To give the foe a picture of their wealcness! 
However high your rank, my lord, be sure 
That neither station, graces, nor renown, 
Alliances with kings, nor warlike fame, 
Shall shield your head from justice in Navarre ! 
Take him away ! 

THE COUNT {suddenly casting off the hands of the Officers 
and advancing to the bar). 

King Philip of Navarre ! 
Another word or two shall still be heard 
By these ihy nobles sitting round thee here. 
I am a sovereign prince as well as thou art, 
Equal in blood and higher in renown : 
For what ihou'st suffer'd to be done this day 
In thine abused name, honour cries " Shame !" 
Here on thy throne, amid thy gallant peers, 
With all Navarre to wilness, 1 proclaim, 
Coward as well as liar is thy name ! 
False friend ! base brother ! discourteous gentleman ! 
In thy poor heart, if one drop of high blood, 
From noble race derived, beats still for fame, 
Thou wilt know how to answer this defiance 

[The Officers again attempt to seize him. 

COUNT. 

OIT with your hands ! Lead on ; but touch me not ; 
Lest I should do an action I might rue. 
And strike, perchance, the pitiful instrument. 

[Exewit Count and Officers. 

CHANCELLOR {rising). 

Away, away ! The session is adjourn'd ! 

The king will ponder o'er these sad events : 

By him alone can they be judged aright. \Exeunt. 



65 



SCENE III. 

A Dungeon in the prisons of Pampeluna. The Count; a 
Jailer. 

COUNT {musing). 
To-morrow, did you say ] That's soon, indeed ! 
To-morrow! The last morrow 1 shall see! 

[Looks down in thought. 
Jailer (icatching him). 
He is moved ! More than 1 thought to see him ! 
Why, sir, I've heard that, in the iDatile-field, 
You often have met death. Men say your eye 
Can gaze upon the coming lance's point, 
Borne at full gallop 'gainst your steady breast. 
And never wink. Then why should you fear death 1 

COUNT {calmly). 
There must be such a thing as fear, 'tis true. 
For I have seen it blanch the cheek, and shake 
The sinewy hand of men robust and bold. 
When some strange portent or unusual sight 
Has come upon them. Strange I never felt it! 
1 feel it not. e'en now, my friend : and yet 
Death, in the midst of life's most sunny day, 
Is a dark thing lo think of. As for the time, 
Its shortness leaves no hope to meet again. 
On this side of the grave, those 1 most love. 
Nor, if yon gloomy court must be the place 
Where this foul murder is to be achieved, 
Can the beloved learn for livelong years 
The fate of him thus lost. 

JAILER. 

Sir, if you mean 
Our own sweet princess — 

COUNT. 

'Twas of her I spoke ! 
Merciful Heaven! what will become of her, 
Without protection left, or hope, or love] 
These are the things that make death terrible !* 

* I believe I have borrowed this line from some other writer ; hi.t, 
with this acknowledgment made, I shall not scruple to retain it, as 
it serves to express my nieaning exartly. 



66 

JAILER. 

There is a rumour, current in the city, 
That, in a neighbouring village, she was seen 
As late as yesterday ; and it is said 
Don Ferdinand de Leyda has engaged. 
If she seek refuge with his sister Marian, 
To bring her to the presence of the king. 

COUNT {vehemently). 
He will not do it I He is tried and true ! 
And yet, what will not royal smiles produce i 
The same bright sun that makes the flower expand, 
Hatches the reptile's egg, and nourishes 
The poisonous weed upon the richest land. 
May Heaven's right arm protect her! This proved 

weak ! 
Oh thai some friend to virtue wrong'd would bear 
To that sweet lady, with a cautious tongue, 
The tidings of my fate, when in death's sleep 
I lie, and his dull hand has blotted out, 
At length, the thought of her. 

JAIL ER. 

Take comfort, sir. 
In that, at least. By high command, I hear. 
The scaffold in the public square is raised ; 
'Tis thought with the intent to lure her forth 
From her safe refuge. They judge she will risk 
All things to say farewell to one she loves. 

COUNT. 

Forbid it, Heaven ! Oh fiends ! Such hellish art 

Will call down vengeance on them at the last! 

To wring so gentle and so true a heart ! 

Shame be upon them {a large bell rings). Hark! there 

sounds a bell ! 
Why turn'st thou pale \ 

JAILER. 

I did not look for that I 
Offer some prayers to Heaven, my lord ! That bell 
Hangs by the secret passage from the palace. 
Twice have I known it ring at this dread hour, 
And twice a soul took speedy flight from earth. [Exit. 

COUNT. 

Then be it so ! Twelve hours of care or sleep, 



67 

Who would regret them 1 Thy just will be done, 
Merciful God ! Yet bless thou, oh Almighty ! 
Her whose dear voice, beneath thy sovereign will, 
Has been to me as that of guardian angel, 
^Sent from thy throne on message of beneficence 
Uiito an erring heart! Why should I fearl 
Thou wilt not leave the messenger who brought 
A spirit Uist, back to the belter way, 
Without thy great protection. 

Enter Queen.' 
[The Count suddenly stops, and she gazes at him for 
a inoment in silence. 

ISABEL {slowly). 

'Tis long, my lord, since we have met alone ; 
And with what different feelings do we meet, 
To those we knew in happier hours long past! 

COUNT. 

Lady, you look upon a dying man ! 
To-morrow, if Tve heard aright, the will 
Of this land's king — or of yourself; for you 
Most likely bear the sceptre in Navarre — 
Dooms me unto the sword. Not that high sword 
Which right and even-handed equity 
Bear but lo smite the guilty, but the sword 
Which private passion sways to murderous ends. 
Fain would 1, lady, now prepare to die : 
And though, with reverence and grief, I might 
Hear my confessor catalogue my sins, 
Yet would I willingly not have them named 
By one who haply had a share in them! 

ISABEL {after gazing on him sternly). 
Oh ! Count of Foix, who led me so to share T 

THE COUNT. 

I will not say one word in my defence, 
Which, Isabel, your ears could hear with pain. 
I know that I am guilty ; judge not you ; 
But, self-condemn'd, bow lowly to my God, 
Grieving for my own deeds. Let us not think, 
Li this dark hour, of aught but of repentance! 
Why you vouchsafe lo visit this sad cell 
I know not, madam ; but, 1 beseech you, 
Disturb not now the heavy thoughts of one 
Preparing for his death. 

FS 



68 



Why do I come ^ 
Because, within my bosom, there ar» thoughts 
Of happier days than these ; and softness steals 
Upon tlie steps of recollected love. 
And turns revenge to weakness. Life I bring; 
To you i offer it ! But there must be 
Conditions to the boon ! 

COUNT. 

Then speak them, lady ! 
Let me know the terms ! I ne'er was found 
Fearful of death, or clinging to this life, 
Of tenure most uncertain, joys most fleeting. 
Yet will I not Heaven's good gift cast away, 
Like a child playing with an unknown gem. 
But your conditions must be no way hard ; 
For that said jewel, life, is a bright toy. 
Worth some defence, and of a certain price ; 
Yet still that price is ascertain'd and clear. 
And I am no such spendthrift to give more 
Than the true value ! May I crave to know 
The sum of these conditions ! 

iSABHL {sternly). 

By your tone, 
I think you mock me ! These are the conditions: 
You shall renounce your idle paramour, 
Blanche of Navarre ; shall swear to see her face 
No more in life ; sliall openly avow — 

COUNT. 

Hold, lady, hold ! Add not another word 

To bring fresh shame upon the lip that speaks it. 

Blanche of Navarre I never will renounce I 

Nor ever swear to see her face no more ! 

God and my honour against vows like these! 

If life be given me, I will use that life 

To seek her o'er the earth. In that whole life 

Still will I love her: in death love her still: 

Long as existence shall endure — the same 

From this sad moment to the last dark point 

Of the uncertain future — every thought. 

Save those that turn to Heaven, shall still be hers! 

Her love my sov'reign antidote shall be 

'Gainst pain and sorrow. Even death itself 

Shall lose its terrors in the thought of her ; 



69 

And when your vengeance o'er this mortal life 

Achieves its triumpli, memory of her 

Shall will a better victory. Her love 

Shall give me courage, give me strength and peace ; 

Her virtue guide me up on high ; and Heaven 

Seem brighter for the hope of meeting her ! 

ISABEL {approaching the door of the cell, and striking it 
violently with her hand). 
Thy fate is chosen ! Be it as thou wilt ! 

[TAe door opens, showing the Jailer andaMaid. 
Thou scorn'st my kindness ! Thou hast scorn'd my love ! 
Now thou shalt try my hate ! Within these walls 
They told thee thou shouldst die. They told thee false! 
No such calm death for thee ! The public axe, 
Stain'd with the blood of every common crime; 
The vulgar butcher and the griimiiig crowd; 
The people, thinking thou art pale with fear, 
Shall greet thee on the scaffold. Everything 
To make death shameful, terrible, and dark, 
Shall fall upon thee in the hour of fate. 
Blanche of Navarre if thou dost think of then, 
Neither shall Isabel forgotten be ! 
Oh, fool that 1 have been ! 

[She turns towards the door, and sees the Jailer and the 
Maid gazing upon her. 

Open the door! 
Why stare you, minion ? Be you blind and dumb! 
Or there are means shall quickly make you so. 
And you, too, keeper of these silent halls, 
There's gold for you ! and yet remember well 
There is a place more silent than e'en this ! 
Lead on, I say ! Why waste ye moments now ? [Exeunt, 



SCENE IV. 

Great Square before the Palace of Pampeluna. The per- 
spective of a long street ; a scaffold unth a block and axe, 
a raised seat being near it for the King, ivith a lattice 
window above, where faces gazing out are seen from 
time to time. 

King o/"Navari^e, Chancellor, Guards, Pages, anrf other 
Attendants, loUh the people to witness the execution. On 



70 

the scaffold, 7iot too high, the Count of Foix, two Execu- 
tioners, a Priest. Guards near the scaffold; a Herald. 
[T/te Count rises from his knees, and bows his head to 
the Priest. 

COUNT. 

I thank you, father ! You have bid me trust 
In an all-seeing Judge, whose righteous will 
Shall yield a sentence different from this 
Which now the herald reads. Mark these false words ! 

[Flourish of trumpets. 

HERALD {reads from a scroll). 
Hear! all men, hear! Sir Francis, Count of Foix, 
Traitor against our sovereign lord the king! 
Tried well and duly by a special court. 
Under the great seal of Navarre ! condemn'd 
For having enter'd privily this land ; 
For having, on the errand of a spy. 
Visited forts and castles of Navarre ; 
For having waged unlawful war, and slain 
The subjects of Navarre, no war declared; 
And more, for having, by arts dark and false, 
PoisonM the pure mind of the Princess Blanche, 
And from her natural guardians her convey'd; 
For these, and many traii'rous acts beside, 
Condemn'd to block and axe: bow down your head! 
And Heaven have mercy on your sinful soul! 

[Flourish of trumpets. 

COUNT {advancing to the front of the scaffold). 
Now let me speak ! Men of Navarre, ye hear ! 
And by your silent presence give consent 
Unto a deed unworthy of this land ! 
Unto a charge false, foul, and slanderous ! 
Unto a sentence lawless, shameless, base ! 
Stranger amid you, I might well have hoped 
That some one — but in common courtesy — 
Of the renown'd nobles of the land. 
Would have stood forth to see that bold power took 
The course of even justice in her dealings 
With one all powerless to resist. 

[Mu7-murs among the people. 

FIRST VOICE. 

Shame ! Shame ! 
They have used him ill .' 



71 



SECOND VOICE. 

Set hira free, good king! 

THIRD VOICE. 

Wrong has been done liim ! [A distant trumpet. 

COUNT. 

Silence, I pray you ! 
Lo ' TheyVe impatient to behold my blood! 
I must not tarry : hear me one word more : 
That, all forsaken in my utmost need, 
Ini(]uity was left to do her will 
With no opposing voice, I do forgive 
So far as 1 alone am injured : but 
Who shall forgive you, if you do not right 
To her, the beautiful, the bright, the good ; 
Belied by those whose hearts' blood should be given 
To shield and guard her, and uphold if cause \ 

[il distant trumpet. 

Blanche of Navarre ! Blanche of Navarre ! the weight, 

The heaviest weight upon my weary heart, 

Is that the vices of my former days. 

Vices thy virtues shamed away for ever, 

Should give unworthy enemies a plea 

To darken thy bright name. Oh, do her right. 

Men of the land, if you have honour left. 

Blanche of Navarre! Blanche of Navarre! if here 

There be but one good soul and noble heart, 

Oh, let him tell thee, when these lips are closed, 

That with my latest words, with my last breath. 

And the departing effort of a spirit 

Boon for a world of truth, I did thee right! 

Proclaim'd thee pure, as pure I know ihou art. 

And died defending thee from calumny ! 

{Trumpets behind the scenes. 

[Enter quickly Don Ferdinand de Leyda Many Guards 

b€arm<r French banners: m the midst a litter with closed 

curtains. The litter ts set down near the King s throne. 

KING {angrily). 

What have we here T How now, Don Ferdinand ! 

BLANCHE {throwing back the curtains). 

My brother's voice ! Where am H 

[^he crazes round her, sees the scaffold, and then, with 
a slriek, rushes into the arms of the Count, the peo- 
ple making way for both lo advance and meet. i>houts 



72 

from the people, and swords drawn among them, 
while the French guards press on round the scaffold. 

KING. 

Don Ferdinand de Leyda, what may mean 
This treacherous coming in of foreign forces ? 

CHANCELLOR. 

How is it that in arms, Don Ferdinand, 
You dare present yourself where solemn justice 
Performs her last sad act ] 

COUNT (ivith his left hand round Blanche, clasping her to 
his heart). 

Now let me die ! 
For, from its treasury of joys, Eternity 
Scarce can produce another hour like this ! 

DON FERDINAND {lO the KiNg). 

Sire, 1 beseech you, as you value honour. 
Safely, and peace, let them forbear at once 
This bloody act ! 

Enter Isabel from behind the throne, her hair dishevelledy 

and her dress in disarray. 

iSlAB£L {to the King). 

What is it I have seen! 
"Will you be bearded at your palace gate. 
Your sceptre trampled on, your crown contemu'dl 
If you're a man, speak but one needful word ! 
Shall he escape .you, when a breath will bring 
The ax.e upon his neck 1 Speak, speak, my lord, 
If there siill live one unextinguish'd spark 
Of royal fire within your breast ; speak, speak ! 
Silent] Then I will speak it: strike, I say! 
Down with the traitor's head ! Strike, headsman, 

strike ! 
Dost thou, slave, disobey ? 

DON FERDINAND {tO the KiNg). 

I pray you, sire. 
Bid yon coarse butcher leave his slaughtering stage, 
And break those shackles from the good count's hands. 
You mark the people ; swords are drawn all round ; 
I — I alone here present — am unarm'd. 
Not venturing to come into your presence 
With weapons in my hand ; and these that follow 
Are not my vassals,. They are the escort 



73 

Of vour beloved sister, sent with her 

Bv vour most mighty friend, the King of France 

\Tke King ?na/te5 a .sz-n <o Me Executioner, «-/io lets 
the axe fall beside the block, and descends. 
I promised, sire, to bring the Lady Blanche 
Into your presence, if on her return 
She sought my sister's dwelhng : she is here ! 
Mv promise is redeem'd. But I am charged 
By Charles the Dauphin, who now occupies 
The passes with the armv, to demand. 
Free and uninjured at your hands, his cousin 
Francis of Foix. He also sent a threat. 
Painful for me to speak. H must be told! 
He says, that if the menaced blow have fallen, 
He'll take the crown f-om off your head, and lay 
This capital in ashes ere a week. 

KING. 

Thou hearest, Isabel. 

ISABEL (ivith frantic vehemence). 

Ay, well! Coward! Fool! 
If thou wouldst e'er regain the name of man, 
Do on thine armour! mount thy horse! and call 
Thy barons to thine aid ! Put yon light girl 
Into some holy house ! Pour out at once 
Her foul seducer's blood ! and, setting up 
The head of yon arch traitor o'er the gates 
To welcome here the French allies he speaks of, 
Lead forth your knights and nobles to defend 
Your kingly rights, and their own native land . 

DON FERDINAND. 

Madam, the project, goodly as it is, 
Alas ! cannot succeed. 

ISABEL. 

Why not, false traitor t 
Thou tremblest for thy head ! Why not, I say t 
DON FERDINAND {taking a parchment fvom a Page). 
For this plain reason, madam, and none else: 
The nobles of Navarre— their names are all 
Sign'd here below— by my weak voice declare, 
Though ever ready to support their king 
In equitable, warfare, they will not— 
No, not a man— lay lance ui rest against 



The power of France in an unrighteons cause. 
Set free the count ; make compensation due 
For the foul wrongs he's sufTer'd. Do but right 
To the pure name of our beloved princess ! 
And then, a thousand weapons at a word 
Spring from the scabbard to defend our king. 
But we'll not pander to a woman's vengeance, 
Nor uphold coward slander with our swords ! 

ISABEL. 

Hearest thou ■? Hearest thou T One manly act ! 
Oh do one manly act, and strike him dead ! 
Or let me do it! {Catching the dagger from the King's 
belt, and springing on Don Ferdinand. 
[Don Ferdinand wrenches the dagger from her, and 
casts it down with contempt. 

DON FERDINAND. 

Madam, your justice is too summary! 

ISABEL {tearing her hair, and gazing wildly round). 
Fools ! madmen ! cowards J traitors ! Out on you I 

\Skrielis violently, and, falling into the arms of her 
IV omen, is carried off. 

DON FERDINAND {kneeling before the King). 
My lord, we know that you have been deceived. 
Recall, T do beseech you, mighty king, 
The spirit of your youth. Oh, bid those bands 
Be taken from as noble hands as e'er 
Wielded the knightly sword, incapable 
Of treachery or wrong: and, to atone 
For all that he has suffer'd, grant, oh grant! 
The precious boon for which he has endured 
Such bitter trials : grant your sister's hand! 
Lo, how he holds her in his shackled arms 
Close to his heart! Strike off the gyves, my lord, 
And leave the princess there ! 

KING. 

Well, be it so! 
I've been indeed deceived ! Strike off the bonds ! 

[4 loud shout from the people. 



CURTAIN FALLS. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 






014 490 767 P < 



